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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26549779">This Gulf Between Us</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radclyffe/pseuds/Radclyffe'>Radclyffe</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Minor Character Death, Missing Persons, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Season/Series 02, Story: The Adventure of the Priory School</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:07:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>26,632</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26549779</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radclyffe/pseuds/Radclyffe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes returns after two years bringing down Moriarty's empire to discover that John has not only got on with his life but has got out of London. Stubborn, angry and hurt it seems they are likely to remain apart forever until a boy and a teacher go missing at a private school and Sherlock is called in to investigate.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>96</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Sherlock's Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was no grand return, no reception committee. Just one of the British Government’s ubiquitous black Jaguars waiting on the tarmac at Brize Norton, complete with its anonymous driver, his courtesy transport to London. For two bits Sherlock would have stuck a finger up at the nearest surveillance camera and made his own way home. But he had no money, no phone and anyway he ached all over; the thought of hitching or being jostled on the train was untenable.</p><p>Mycroft had gone ahead, after the initial debrief, leaving Sherlock to be patched up in a military hospital in Dusseldorf before being put on the army aircraft to England. It had been a perfunctory job, a few stitches here and there, a couple of blood tests but generally Sherlock was in better shape than anyone who had endured what he had, had the right to be, and could be treated with antibiotics and some mild painkillers and then sent on his way. Sherlock was not inclined to protest; he was bone weary and just wanted it all to be over.</p><p>The journey was a little under two hours, the car warm and comfortable, and Sherlock closed his eyes, and gave the impression of dozing while his mind raced to assimilate to his new circumstances. After around an hour he detected a change in the sights and sounds outside and he opened his eyes again in time to catch a glimpse of the Polish War Memorial from Western Avenue, nearly home.</p><p>The car delivered him to Mycroft’s office, where his brother was sat behind his desk in the usual manner, face a little rounder, hair slightly thinner but otherwise unchanged. If it hadn’t been for the encounter in Serbia, Sherlock might have supposed that the man had not moved a muscle in two years.</p><p>Sherlock snarled and postured when Mycroft gave him the Underground case but inwardly he acknowledged that nothing would help him restore some semblance of normality to his life more than The Work.</p><p>But there was something about his air of self-satisfaction as Mycroft reviewed Sherlock’s files that made him want to wipe the smug expression off his brother’s face.</p><p>“You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp!!”</p><p>He was angry with Mycroft, but he had enough self-knowledge to admit that he was merely diverting the anger from himself.  He was angry that the mission had taken so long, angry that he had wasted time in Tibet, angry that he had misjudged the situation in Serbia and got caught, angry that his brother had witnessed his humiliation and taken the credit for getting him out.</p><p>Knowing he wasn’t going to win Sherlock abruptly changed the subject. “And what about John Watson?”</p><p><em>“</em>John?” Mycroft repeated the name with a slight inflection, as if there was some question as to which of the many John Watsons of his acquaintance Sherlock referred.</p><p>“Have you seen him?” Sherlock was in no mood for games, which was unfortunate as Mycroft was determined to play.</p><p>“Oh, yes – we meet up every Friday for fish and chips.”</p><p>Mycroft gestured towards Anthea who produced a folder and handed it to Sherlock. Sherlock took the folder and opened it, scowling at the photograph inside while his brother droned on.</p><p>“You haven’t been in touch at all, to prepare him?”</p><p>“I rather think that was your job, brother mine.”</p><p>There was a brief silence before Sherlock, eager to retain the upper hand replied.</p><p>“I think I’ll surprise John. He’ll be delighted!”</p><p>“You think so? “</p><p>“I’ll pop into Baker Street. Who knows… jump out of a cake?”</p><p>“Baker Street?” Mycroft sounded incredulous, “He isn’t there anymore.”</p><p>Sherlock’s bland expression he usually adopted when in his brother’s company gave way to surprise.</p><p>“Why would he be?” Mycroft continued “It’s been two years. He’s got on with his life.”</p><p>Sherlock dismissed this as ridiculous, “What life? I’ve been away.”</p><p>“He never went back to Baker Street after your demise. Naturally, I kept a weather eye on him, at first. He refused all offers of my assistance, frankly he was quite belligerent, warned me off several times. Thus, once the British arm of Moriarty’s operation was eliminated, I deemed it unnecessary to continue to monitor his movements, according to the last report I received he was living near Salisbury, but that was some months ago. I imagine I could arrange for someone to track him down without much effort, even if he does not wish to be found.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t want to put you to any more trouble.” Sherlock replied. “I can do my own legwork where John is concerned. As you say it shouldn’t take long to track him down.”</p><p>Mycroft sighed, although he was glad to see his brother home, and relatively unscathed after his adventures it did not take long for the fraternal affection to wear thin. “You know, it is just possible that you won’t be welcome.”</p><p>“No, it isn’t.”</p><p>“It’s up to you but if you’ll take my advice, you’ll wait for Dr Watson to come to you.”</p><p>Sherlock wondered if there was some sense in what Mycroft was saying but was not about to concede any points to his brother.</p><p> “It was taking your advice that got me in this mess in the first place.” Sherlock snapped back. “Now, where is it?”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. John's Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Shortly after Sherlock’s suicide Dr John Watson made an appearance at the City of London Magistrates Court where he pleaded guilty to assaulting a police officer contrary to section 89 of the Police Act 1996 and was sentenced to six months’ imprisonment suspended for two years and ordered to carry out two hundred hours community service.</p><p>The General Medical Council considered Dr Watson’s position in the light of this conviction but decided it did not warrant the removal of his licence to practice medicine. It was John’s own decision not to renew his licence, after all, he reasoned to Lestrade, what earthly use were his degrees in medicine, if he could not save the life of the one person who mattered most to him in the world?</p><p>He never set foot again in Baker Street after Sherlock’s death. He dossed at his sister’s, Mike’s, Sarah’s and even for two (possibly three – his memory of the time was at best vague) drunken nights at Lestrade’s, before he secured a bedsit in same hostel where the whole sorry saga had begun. John’s sole conversation with Mycroft Holmes in twelve months that could pass as civil, had consisted of a barked instruction to have the contents of the small bedroom at the top of the stairs at 221b packed up and delivered to his new address. He regretted losing touch with Mrs Hudson but was too immersed in his own grief to cope with hers as well.</p><p>To say he was not in a good place was an understatement. Sleep alluded him much of the time, and when he did succumb (collapsed with emotional exhaustion), the symptoms of his PTSD returned with a vengeance. He limped, his left hand shook but worst of all were the nightmares, more vivid than before and just as terrifying, except that they no long featured his own injuries, or even those of his comrades, bleeding out beneath the desert sun. Instead it was his best, his truest friend, plunging to his death on the cold grey concrete outside Bart's that caused him firstly to wake in the night, and then lie awake for hours, fretful, nauseous, impotent, and too anxious to attempt to sleep again, stuck in an endless cycle of insomnia, fatigue, sleep, nightmare and insomnia.  </p><p>His cries in the night echoed through the thin walls of the hostel and made him unpopular with the other residents, but John was indifferent to their complaints, he suspected he might never care about anything ever again. But John did recognise that the only alternative to his place at the hostel was the streets, so he took to drinking in the evenings in the vain hope it might render him unconscious through the night.</p><p>John kept his appointments with his probation officer who made several unwelcome suggestions as to suitable activities with which his could pay his debt to society. John knew that Mycroft could make the conviction disappear with the stroke of a pen but nothing would have induced him to make such a request, instead he took great pains to demonstrate his willingness to consider anything while finding objections to everything on her list.  He had no wish to work with the homeless for fear encountering Sherlock’s former network, likewise with anything to do with drug or alcohol rehabilitation triggered more unhappy memories. The thought of hospital work under these circumstances repelled him and he had no inclination for gardening. Finally, as he was running out of time and options, he agreed to volunteer at an adult literacy and ESOL project in Tower Hamlets. With the patience instilled him by a career in medicine, military life and nannying the world’s only consulting detective he quietly discovered he had a natural aptitude for teaching.</p><p>Just over six months after Sherlock’s death, John Watson received a letter from a solicitor informing him that his late friend had left his money to his flatmate.  Sherlock having predeceased both his brother and his parents had not died a wealthy man; his material possessions had apparently been bequeathed to Mycroft, but the letter contained a cheque for £9456.32. John tore both the letter and the cheque into tiny pieces before flushing them down the toilet and drinking himself senseless. Eight weeks later, the exact same sum appeared in his bank account. This legacy, plus his small army pension allowed John a to drift a while longer, without addressing the matter of his future.</p><p>Time marched on, until Sherlock had been dead almost a year. John no longer saw the splatter pattern of Sherlock’s blood on the pavement every time he closed his eyes. Some nights he went to sleep without the assistance of a double scotch, and two or three days a week he even went a couple of hours without thinking about his friend’s suicide. He began to think of employment, not a return to medicine, that was a closed book now, but something to occupy the hours not spent staring at his unwritten blog, or the bottom of a glass. With the help of his probation officer he found a course that would help him turn his medical degree into an approximation of a teaching qualification and set about achieving that in the shortest amount of time permissible.</p><p>John’s second decision was that he must get out of London. Once he could not imagine living anywhere else but now the city was indelibly associated with the memory of his dead friend. Baker Street and Bart's were easily avoided, and the hordes of Japanese tourists asking the way to Buckingham Palace could just about be tolerated. If he didn’t look up, he could avoid seeing the Oxo Tower and the Shad Shanderson Corporation picked out against city skyline. But it was the casual memories evoked by the city streets that pained him most. One evening after teaching practice at St Clement Dane’s the bus took a detour down Northumberland Street and as he passed Angelo’s he was once again poleaxed by grief. Similarly, a glimpse from the back of a taxi of the crack house in Upper Swandam Lane that Sherlock had expressed an unhealthy interest in left him panicky and breathless. Great swathes of the city, from Chinatown to Belgravia were now off limits. He had to get away.</p><p>John mentioned his need for employment to his tutor who recommend him for a temporary post at a small private school in Dorset. The contract was only for a term to cover maternity leave and it was unlikely that John would have been appointed had any more suitable candidates applied. But the school needed someone immediately and was prepared to overlook John’s lack of experience provided he was prepared to live in.</p><p>John proved an able and popular addition to the school and the Headmaster was sorry that he had no permanent vacancy for him. However boarding schools tend to operate within the old boys’ network they serve to perpetuate, and he mentioned John to a fellow Head who was looking for a residential master from the Summer Term onwards. John was duly interviewed and appointed. The school was in an inhospitable part of the Derbyshire peaks and that suited John just fine.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. A Headmaster Calls</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The game is on...</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock cracked the case of the underground terrorist plot with the assistance of a train nerd called Howard and without breaking into a sweat. He sent a text with the details to Mycroft and left the rest to the bomb disposal unit. A short phone call later advised Sherlock that the perpetrator had been arrested, Mycroft hinted that he was pleased with the outcome without directly saying so, Sherlock took the thanks as implied and considered his debt paid.</p><p>He made his peace Mrs Hudson, narrowly avoided being brained by a saucepan and received a tearful hug which was just as painful. He spent time with Lestrade, Molly, his parents and even Philip Anderson. He allowed Mycroft to orchestrate the official announcement of his resurrection and waited patiently in his old chair in Baker Street for John to arrive.</p><p>He didn’t.</p><p>Slowly, Sherlock’s life began to resemble the life held had led five years ago, before Baker Street, before The Fall, before John. Lestrade appeared at his door one morning with a case that lived up to its potential as a seven. Shortly afterwards a private client engaged Sherlock with a fat cheque and some missing documents. It was a solitary life but until John, Sherlock had never expected anything else. He bore more than just physical scars to mark his time away. While the wounds on his back were tight and itchy and Sherlock blamed them for keeping him awake at night, the two years on the run, perpetually on the lookout, anticipating danger, had left him permanently changed. Mycroft worried about him and called into Baker Street far too often and got on Sherlock’s nerves, his solicitude a thin disguise for ensuring his little brother was staying off the sweeties. Sherlock was lonely but projected the sentiment onto his brother just for the reaction it produced.</p><p>This situation might have gone on indefinitely had it not been disturbed by the arrival of an early morning visitor to Baker Street, complete with frenzied banging on the front door followed by the aggravated sound of Mrs Hudson calling up the stairs.</p><p>“Sherlock, are you decent?”</p><p>Sherlock was decent, if pyjamas and his mouse coloured dressing gown counted, it was only just gone half past nine. Mrs Hudson’s voice was barely audible above the pounding of footsteps on the stairs before an untidily dressed, considerably overweight middle aged man, breathless and red in the face from the exertion, burst into his room, paused, stared at Sherlock like a rabbit caught in headlights and promptly collapsed.</p><p>Sherlock, although not medically trained, assessed the situation with a glance.</p><p>“Sugared tea, please, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock addressed his landlady who had followed his visitor into the room, “and biscuits if you may. And quickly!” She ran for it, hip forgotten.</p><p>Sherlock knelt by the man’s side, felt for his pulse which was faint but steady, then loosened his tie and collar, the man seemed to be breathing normally. Sherlock cast an appraising eye over his visitor, the two-day stubble on his chin, the dirt on his collar and cuffs, and a train ticket poking out of the breast pocket of his jacket. Sherlock, extracted it, noted the details of the journey and replaced it, just as the man’s eyelids began to quiver, and a pair of vacant blue eyes looked up at him. An instant later the man was trying to scramble to his feet, his face still grey with exhaustion. Sherlock gently restrained him and offered him a cushion for his head.</p><p>“My landlady has gone to fetch you a drink and something to eat. You should know better, in view of your diabetes, than to get up in the middle of the night and come racing down to London without any breakfast.”</p><p>The man looked shame faced, and when Mrs Hudson appeared with tea, biscuits and a large square of fudge, he insisted on moving to a chair, and took them gratefully.</p><p>Gradually his colour began to look normal, although Mrs Hudson still hovered around just in case further assistance was needed. Sherlock did not dismiss her for the same reason, instead motioned her to sit also as they all took tea. Now that he felt better, the visitor, obviously a client, was at pains to press his cause.</p><p>“Forgive my early intrusion, Mr. Holmes, but I have come in person in order to insure that you would return to Mackleton with me by the next train. I feared that no telephone call or email would convince you of the absolute urgency of the case."</p><p>Sherlock sat back his seat and took a sip of his tea.</p><p>“I am unfortunately very busy at present. I am retained in the case of the Ferrers Documents, and I am likely to called as an expert witness in the Abergavenny murder trial. Only a very important issue could induce me to leave London at present."</p><p>“I assure you, Mr Holmes, it is a case of the utmost importance,” here the man lowered his voice to barely above a whisper, “it concerns His Grace, the Duke of Holderness.”</p><p> “Who?” But alert to the fact Mrs Hudson had given a little squeal, Sherlock added, “Perhaps you might elucidate.”</p><p>The visitor, having at least gained Sherlock’s attention, relaxed in the client’s chair and took another biscuit.</p><p>“If I may furnish you with a little background to this desperate situation. My name is Dr Thorneycroft Huxtable and I am the headmaster of a boys’ preparatory school in Derbyshire.  I am the fourth generation of my family to head the school which was founded over a hundred years ago by my great-grandfather.</p><p>“Over the years, the school has welcomed scholars from the highest echelons of society but changes in the economy has necessitated our opening its doors to boys from, shall we say, more eclectic backgrounds. Therefore, you can only imagine my delight when the Duke of Holderness…”</p><p>There was another squeal from the direction of Mrs Hudson.</p><p>“… chose my school for the education of his son, Lord Saltire.”</p><p>During Dr Huxtable’s speech, Sherlock had been busy on his phone, and he now read aloud from the Wikipedia entry.</p><p>“’Holderness, 10th Duke, K.G., P.C.' blah, blah! 'Baron Beverley, Earl of Carston' and the rest! 'Lord Lieutenant of Hallamshire since 2000. Married Natasha, daughter of Pieter Petrovitch, 1997. Four children, Olga, Marianna, Estella and Arthur, Lord Saltire… What is it Mrs Hudson?”</p><p>“They’re getting divorced. It was in the <em>Daily Express</em>; she’s filed for divorce on the grounds of irreconcilable differences.”</p><p>The visitor pulled a face at his illustrious parent being the subject of gossip, and disregarding Mrs Hudson’s comment continued.</p><p>“Lord Saltire joined the school at the beginning of the Autumn term. He was a charming youth, and he soon fell into our ways. As this lady has intimated, he was not entirely happy at home, and his parents had recently separated…”</p><p>“She’s moved to the south of France and taken the girls.” Mrs Hudson contributed, although this time did not name her source.</p><p>“I believe that is correct. As I said, within a fortnight the boy was quite at home with us and was apparently absolutely happy.”</p><p>“Apparently?”</p><p>“Yesterday morning, Lord Saltire did not appear at breakfast, his bed had not been slept in, and a set of clothes were missing. I organised a search of the school and I was certain that the boy was not in the building.  At first, we thought he might have found a way out of his room via the window; although it is on the second floor there is a strong growth of ivy on the outside wall, it would easily have supported his weight. It was impossible he could have left the school though any of the main doors which are locked and alarmed overnight.”</p><p>“The gardener and his lad, plus some of the domestic staff who were not on duty searched the grounds to no avail; it was then reported to me that the science master was also missing. I knew at once that was no co-incidence and that I could no longer delay in informing His Grace of his son’s disappearance. My worst fears were realised, he had already received the demand.”</p><p>“Ransom?”</p><p>“Yes, although His Grace did not disclose the details.”</p><p>“And what action have the police taken?”</p><p>“They have not been contacted. His Grace expressly forbade any outside intervention.”</p><p>“And yet you have come to me?”</p><p>“I have been led to believe you had some remarkable success some years ago regarding the kidnapping of the children of the American Ambassador, I was hoping you could apply the same expertise in this event.” Dr Huxtable spoke without guile; he was obviously unaware of the consequences of that case.</p><p>“You have been sadly misinformed… I don’t handle child abduction cases.” Sherlock replied, his features grim.</p><p>The headteacher was quick to correct him. “You misunderstand me, Mr Holmes, much as I would wish it, I cannot directly ask you to investigate the boy’s abduction without the permission of his parents.”</p><p>“Then what has brought you here so urgently?”</p><p>“I have the reputation of my school to think of, and there is still the matter of the missing science master, what part, if any, he played in this.”</p><p>“Ah, of course!”</p><p>“The coverage of your return from the dead, so to speak, was a subject of much discussion in the staff room. Without it I would have been unaware of your association with the missing master.”</p><p>“My association?” Sherlock questioned.</p><p>“Your former colleague, our science master… Dr Watson.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. An Ever-rolling Stream</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>John should have known better</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was something about being a housemaster at a boy’s boarding school that echoed John’s life in the army. Although he had classes of boys to teach rather than a company of medics to supervise there were many similarities, and he enjoyed the responsibility of caring and nurturing his charges. His rooms in the school were pleasant and a great improvement on his hostel bedsit. The meals in the school dining room were well cooked and nourishing. The jocularity of the staff room was not unlike the camaraderie of the officers’ mess. The daily discipline of mental exercise and outdoor pursuits established a welcome routine. John took to it like a duck to water.</p><p>John was happy at the Priory School; he had joined the school at Easter, just as the clocks had changed and the days had lengthened. The children were not particularly academic, and John was more than competent to teach them natural sciences at their level. He taught them about the natural world, human physiology, some botany and basic chemistry. If he felt a certain poignancy when he showed his eight-year olds the workings of a microscope or used the idea of the Earth’s rotation to explain day and night and the apparent movement of the sun across the sky, he tamped it down. Time, like an ever-rolling stream really did bear all its sons away.</p><p>The summer term was a short one and John had the long vacation to explore his surroundings. While the other teachers took holidays abroad and visited family, John was quite content to stay in his rooms at the school and spend his days exploring the surrounding countryside. Walking was an ordeal as his limp persisted, so he bought a bicycle and took himself off every day, up hill and down dale, along the country lanes to market towns and villages around Mackleton, stopping to discover ancient churches, quaint tea rooms and peculiarly dressed wells. The exercise did John good, it restored his soul and made him feel at peace in a way he hadn’t for over two years.  He little knew that his world was about to be turned on its head again.</p><p>The autumn term began in early September. The weather was still fine, although John could detect a slight nip in the air in the mornings as he crossed the quad from his quarters to the dining room, and he observed a scattering of russet amid the green leaves of the surrounding trees. The new term brought a fresh crop of boys to the school. John was not fazed by these little princes, the one whose mother was a super model, or whose father played for Chelsea (although overall the parents were mainly bankers or politicians of the Sebastian Wilkes type). There was one boy, however, who elicited a special kind of deference from Dr Huxtable. John observed him too, a slender, quiet boy, small for his age, with a mop of curly dark hair and a thoughtful expression that caused John to reflect that he had never once seen a photograph of Sherlock as a child.</p><p>The boy was Arthur Saltire, the only son and heir of one of the local landowning aristocracy. He joined the school a year after the rest of his form and went straight into a class with the rising nines. Dr Huxtable asked John to keep a particular eye on Arthur, hinting of parents recently separated and a messy custody battle. John wondered if the boy’s rank, his arrival at the school after the rest of his year and the headmaster’s special interest would result in the kind of bullying that so often prevailed in public schools, but his fears were unfounded. Arthur soon emerged from his shell and began to make friends, there was nothing of the incipient sociopath about him.</p><p>The weather was suddenly unseasonably warm and one afternoon John took the first-year boys out into the grounds ostensibly to learn the difference between deciduous and evergreen trees but really to enjoy the late sunshine while collecting conkers. As John sat the class down on the grass to draw the skeletal horse chestnut leaves, a hundred and fifty miles away a military aircraft touched down at Brize Norton.</p><p>******</p><p>John watched with a mixture of incredulity and amazement the coverage of Sherlock’s return to the land of the living, and London, before settling on anger as his primary emotion. He did not attempt to contact his former friend and sincerely hoped that Sherlock would have the good sense not to try to contact him.</p><p>He was subtly aware of whisperings in the staff common room, of the sudden silence that descended when he walked into the room. The papers had raked up old stories of the hat detective and his sidekick ‘confirmed bachelor John Watson’. He was grateful that his name, while not quite John Smith was the next best thing, and the fact he had gone almost completely grey in the two years since the most recent photograph published had been taken. He would not have lied if he had been asked outright but, in the end, no one was brave or stupid enough.</p><p>The equilibrium he had achieved, first at the school in Dorset and then at the Priory School deserted him, his limp became more pronounced and sleep eluded him. He was wary to check his private emails and put away his phone to avoid inadvertently answering a call from Mycroft, or Sherlock, or perhaps worst of all, the press. The images of the blood splattered pavement returned vividly and without warning and not just when he closed his eyes. It seemed crueller now, the suicide that Sherlock had forced him to witness, crueller because it hadn’t been real.</p><p>John struggled with the rising tide of emotions that welled up inside when he thought about his former flatmate.  He feared if he saw Sherlock, he would beat his brains out for him, or burst into tears, or hug him and never let him go again. None of these reactions were acceptable so he did nothing to close the gap between them.</p><p>******</p><p>It was another sleepless night made worse by a full moon, a harvest moon his mother would have called it, although its appearance was a little incongruous for November, full and low and round, bright in the night sky and creeping round the edges of the curtains where they didn’t quite meet in the middle. John gave up trying to get comfortable and got out of bed to make himself a drink and to try to draw the curtains a little tighter.  He stood for a moment and looked out across the quad, admiring the old grey stone walls of the original priory made iridescent in the moonlight when his eyes informed his brain that a small boy was climbing down the ivy on the opposite wall.</p><p>“You little rascal!” John exclaimed out loud, it was well past midnight, and no child should be up and about even within the school building and certainly not risking life and limb leaving by means of nothing more substantial than a creeper, however old and well established. “Whatever it is you’re up to, young man, I’m going to put a stop to it!”</p><p>John could hardly go racing outside in just his boxers and a t-shirt. He quickly pulled on his trousers from the day before, threw a jumper over his head and stuffed his feet into trainers, grabbed his cane and keys and made his way downstairs to outside door of his building. But he was hampered by his limp and by the time he reached the quad there was no sign of the runaway. He wondered if he should alert someone, but apart from the security lights the school was in darkness and anyway he didn’t want to get the boy into trouble. He would fetch him back and no one would be the wiser.</p><p>The Priory School was built around a central courtyard accessed by a large archway, the most direct route for the boy to take to reach the outside. John knew that walking he would never catch him, even a nine year old with a shorter stride would be swifter on his feet than he could manage, so he went first to the bicycle shed to retrieve his machine before setting off down the drive to the gates and the lane that lead to the main road to Mackleton.</p><p>As he pedalled furiously John racked his brain to see if he could remember who slept in the corner rooms in that wing of the school. He thought it was Morrison and a boy with a vivarium on the first floor, above them, Caunter and the new boy Arthur Saltire. At once, John was certain that it had been Arthur whom he had seen making his escape.</p><p>The drive was not a long one and John was hopeful that he would overtake the boy, but it seemed he had taken longer than he realised to start his pursuit. As he turned the corner, he saw the main gates in the distance and could tell they were closing. By the light of the moon he could make out a pickup truck, its engine running, and a small boy being helped into the cab by a man who then climbed in beside him and the truck slowly moved off.</p><p>John knew that he should go back and raise the alarm, but if he did then he would lose them, and anyway his instinct was to keep going. The gates were designed to open automatically as you approached them, and they did just that and John sailed through them. John guessed the pickup would be heading for Mackleton intending to join the A road beyond, but they would have to go round by the lane which was narrow and winding, while John could take the short cut across the fields along the bridle path which would bring him out at the crossroads much quicker. He had done it many times before during the summer, and with the moon so bright the way held no surprises for him.</p><p>John reached the crossroads in good time, turned off his lights and waited. He was pretty certain he had beaten the pickup, and sure enough no more than five minutes later the truck came towards him, as it slowed down at the junction John impulsively grabbed hold of the tailgate and hung on for dear life with his right hand as he steered his bike with the left. As the truck accelerated, John’s cycle freewheeled alongside it, just out of sight in the darkness. John wondered how long he could keep it up, if his arm would be wrenched from its socket, or if his tyres would fail or his luck would run out some other way.</p><p>It turned out it was his luck that ran out. After several miles but before they reached Mackleton, the pickup made a sharp left turn, suddenly and without warning causing the front of John’s bicycle to clip the side of the truck, and for John to let go, needing both hands to steady himself, the wheel completely buckled. Ahead of him the vehicle stopped abruptly, and the young man John had seen earlier jumped down and walked towards him.</p><p>“I thought we had an uninvited passenger. Now what are we supposed to do with you?”</p><p>John turned to face the man, who seemed vaguely familiar to him, ready to put up as much of as fight as he was able but before he had a chance, someone (<em>something?</em>) struck him from behind and everything went dark. </p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Where the Sunlight Cannot Find You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sherlock at The Priory School</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the time it took for Sherlock to dress and collect the overnight bag which he kept for such occasions, and for Mrs Hudson to make them both sandwiches, they were ready to depart. However, there was little point in hurrying, the first train with a connection to Mackleton was not until Midday.</p><p>They sat down again while Mrs Hudson brought them more tea and tried, unsuccessfully, to induce Sherlock to eat a decent breakfast, he polished off the remaining biscuits instead. Sherlock deduced that Dr Huxtable was not entirely convinced of John’s innocence regarding his pupil’s disappearance but was reluctant express these concerns to the missing man’s friend. Sherlock used the time available to bombard the headmaster with questions. Dr Huxtable supplied the detective with as much information as he could recall (which Sherlock considered woefully inadequate) but he listened thoughtfully until they reached the part John’s bicycle had played.</p><p>Sherlock leaned forward. “His bicycle is missing?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Are you certain no-one else could have taken it?”</p><p>“Quite.”</p><p>“You do not mean to seriously suggest that Dr Watson rode off on a bicycle in the dead of the night, carrying a struggling boy on the crossbars?”</p><p>“The boy may not have been struggling, he may have been drugged.” Dr Huxtable caught sight of Sherlock’s face at that suggestion and continued hurriedly, “or perhaps Dr Watson was following the boy and wanted to catch up with him.”</p><p>“John would hardly have needed a bicycle to overtake a small boy on foot!”</p><p>Dr Huxtable looked startled at this. “I thought you knew the man, have you forgotten Dr Watson walks with a pronounced limp?”</p><p>Sherlock was so stunned by this revelation that he lapsed into complete silence for some time while he trawled the corridors of his mind palace. John had walked with a limp when they had first met, but Sherlock had soon cured him of that, it was largely psychosomatic anyway. Sherlock did not understand what might have caused the limp to return in his absence, but that conundrum would have to wait until he had located John, so he returned to mentally considering the doctor’s part in the case.</p><p>John could not have instigated the disappearance, that was nonsense unless… Sherlock paused, John might have actively removed Lord Saltire from the school had he suspected the child was in danger…</p><p>“Was anything else of Dr Watson’s missing?”</p><p>“I have no idea.” The Headmaster conceded.</p><p>“I will need to make a thorough search when we arrive.” Sherlock stated, then relapsed back into his thoughts. He knew John, or at least he had, if John had witnessed anything, he would have intervened whatever the personal risk. Despite Dr Huxtable’s unspoken suspicions Sherlock knew that John would always rush in where angels feared to tread. The idiot.</p><p>But it was now well over twenty-four hours since John had left the school, presumably, the link was not established but could not be coincidence, in pursuit of the boy. If he was still at liberty why had he not returned, or at least informed someone of his whereabouts. Sherlock did not like it at all. The best explanation that he could hope for was that John had been taken captive alongside the boy, the worst, well that was unthinkable, so Sherlock would not think it.</p><p>Dr Huxtable, now fully recovered from his earlier fatigue, looked at his watch, coughed, then coughed again more loudly. When Sherlock finally acknowledged his existence, he said.</p><p>“I think, Mr. Holmes, it is time that we were leaving for Euston.”</p><p>******</p><p>Dr Huxtable’s anxiety ensured the two men caught the train to Stockport, where they would change, in good time. Once settled in seats opposite each other in a relatively empty carriage, Sherlock resumed his questioning of the headmaster, this time focusing on the missing child.</p><p>“Did the boy have any visitors on the day before he disappeared?”</p><p>"No."</p><p>"Any emails or texts?"</p><p>“Not that I am aware, we restrict the younger boys’ access to their devices,” Dr Huxtable enunciated the word in a way that dripped distain, “we don’t allow unsupervised use.”</p><p>“Might he have a phone unbeknown to you or his housemaster?”</p><p>“He might, such a thing is not impossible,” Dr Huxtable agreed, “but it would have to be supplied by the parents, and His Grace is something of a stickler for the rules. He may, however, have received a letter. I will contact the office; the bursar’s secretary will know.”</p><p>“A letter?”</p><p>“We instruct all the boys in the noble art of letter writing, so useful in later life, and we encourage all parents to write to their boys. It gives them something to look forward to.”</p><p>Dr Huxtable took out his own mobile phone, an antiquated Nokia, peered at it and dialled, a brief conversation ensued, and it appeared there had indeed been a letter.</p><p>"From whom?"</p><p>"From his father. The crest was on the envelope and Jennifer is certain the writing was the Duke’s.”</p><p>"Do you open the boys' letters?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>"I see… you said the boy’s room was searched after he was discovered to be missing, there was no letter found?”</p><p>"I cannot be absolutely certain as we were not looking for a letter, but had it been lying about we would have seen it. Perhaps he had hidden it?”</p><p>“More likely that he took it with him.” Sherlock instantly convinced that the letter was key to the mystery.</p><p>They were quiet after that; the Headmaster having achieved the desired outcome of his journey to London, and having consumed most of Mrs Hudson’s excellent packed lunch, his exhaustion caught up with him and he dozed while Sherlock scoured the internet on his phone for background to the case.</p><p>Sherlock could instantly see why his landlady had been so excited by Dr Huxtable name dropping the missing boy’s famous parents. She was a devotee of the gossip columns and reality television and the Duke of Holderness and his Duchess were regulars in the tabloids. He had already gleaned as much as he could from the Duke’s Wikipedia page while still at Baker Street, now he settled down to peruse the more salacious entries of the red tops. There was little of interest about the Duke who it seemed tried (although not always successfully) to keep a low profile in the press; the coverage tended to be of various charitable events and country pursuits. There were some photographs, from which Sherlock could see the Duke was a handsome, patrician man in his mid-fifties. The most interesting thing about him, apart from his title and estates, was his marriage. Not only had his choice of bride been considered rather eccentric but the Duke had been almost forty when he married, an event which took place about a year after his younger brother had died in a caving accident. There appeared to be no suspicious circumstances regarding the brother’s death, his interest in extreme sports was well known, and as it was over twenty years ago, Sherlock dismissed this from having any bearing on the present case. Although reading between the lines it appeared that it had been the loss of his heir that had prompted the Duke to marry, and while nothing was said overtly, the prime motivation was generally implied as the need to reproduce.</p><p>Sherlock then turned his attention to the Duchess; she was a much more interesting character. The news of the impending divorce had exercised the press and several of the articles carried photographs of the woman taken on different occasions over the course of her marriage and before. She was a striking woman, some fifteen years the Duke’s junior, Sherlock surmised, something of the look of Irene Adler about her, perhaps more so if she had stayed with her natural colouring rather than the bottle blonde she adopted. There were four children, a daughter born within a year of the marriage, twin girls some eighteen months later and then the longed-for heir five years after that.</p><p>The former Natasha Petrovitch was the daughter of the Russian Oligarch Pieter Petrovitch who had become wealthy under Gorbachev selling Levi’s on the black market before making serious money from the fossil fuel industry after the collapse of the Soviet Union. From the report in the Financial Times, his property portfolio had grown to extend into every major city in Europe, plus New York, the house in London alone was said to be worth over one hundred million. There were investments in every sphere of British life and Petrovitch’s assimilation had reached its zenith, when, like the railroad kings of the nineteenth century, his daughter had married into the British aristocracy.</p><p>Sherlock reflected on some of the encounters he had had with elements of the Russian Mafia, in Belarus and during his time away, and as a result did not rule out a possible link to the disappearance of Petrovitch’s grandson. There had been many allegations regarding the providence of the Petrovitch fortune, but nothing had ever been proved and he had died three years ago with his reputation unimpeached. His money had not, however, bought him happiness; his son had died at twenty-one of a drug overdose in Berlin, and his younger daughter had been lost when the helicopter she was travelling in ditched into the North Sea, thus his entire estate had passed to his only surviving child, Natasha.</p><p>There were very few photographs of the Holderness children, their parents were fiercely protective of their privacy but, four years ago, Arthur had been a page boy at the wedding of a minor royal and this had been reported widely. Sherlock looked at the small pale face and mop of dark curls and, despite the fact the child was dressed as Little Lord Fauntleroy, Sherlock was certain he would know him if he saw him now.</p><p>******</p><p>It was dusk when the two men arrived at Mackleton station and Dr Huxtable quickly secured a taxi to the Priory School some eight miles away.  The car took them into the heart of the Peak country and Sherlock peered out into the gloom, trying to understand the attraction of the place that, for the past six months, John had called home. It was in such severe contrast to the lights and noise of London. The taxi swung into the gravel forecourt of the school and pulled up next to a Daimler that was parked in the place allocated to visitors. Sherlock got out and stretched his legs while Dr Huxtable paid the driver.  Immediately the main door open and a young man, obviously another teacher, ran to the Headmaster and whispered something in his ear. Dr Huxtable turned to Sherlock in considerable agitation.</p><p>“The Duke and his assistant, James Wilder are here. They waiting in my study. Come along, Mr Holmes, and I will introduce you.”</p><p>The Duke’s photographs had not misrepresented him, he was a tall and stately person, scrupulously dressed, but his face was drawn and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes.  There was something about him that reminded Sherlock of his brother, or at least one of his cronies, and Sherlock took an instant dislike to him solely on that account. Beside him stood a young man, around twenty-five or six, who Sherlock assumed to be Wilder, the personal assistant. He was small, nervous, alert with intelligent light-blue eyes and mobile features. It was Wilder who at once, in an incisive and positive tone, opened the conversation.</p><p>“I telephoned this morning, Dr Huxtable, too late to prevent you from starting for London. I learned that your object was to invite Mr. Sherlock Holmes to undertake the conduct of this case. His Grace is surprised that you should have taken such a step without consulting him.</p><p>“You are aware, Dr Huxtable, that the persons who are holding Lord Saltire have expressly prohibited any outside interference. His Grace is particularly anxious to obey them to the letter. The fact that so many people from the school have been alerted to Lord Saltire’s disappearance is unfortunate, but regarding the ransom only you, I and the Duchess have been taken into his confidence and you did not have permission to disclose it to anyone else.”</p><p>“The matter can be easily remedied” said the Headmaster, immediately grovelling in the presence of nobility; “Mr. Sherlock Holmes can return to London by the morning train.”</p><p>“I hardly think so, Doctor,” Sherlock interrupted in his blandest voice. “You forget, I am not here to investigate the disappearance of Lord Saltire but that of your science master, Dr  Watson. Whether I have the shelter of your roof or of the village inn while I do so is, of course, for you to decide.”</p><p>Faced with imperiousness from both sides, Dr Huxtable’s face was a picture of indecision. Sherlock added to his dilemma by saying nonchalantly.</p><p>“If you insist, Dr Huxtable, naturally I will return to London, however I would consider myself duty bound to report the missing person to my friends at Scotland Yard.”</p><p>The mention of the police animated the Duke, who came to Dr Huxtable’s rescue by saying in a deep, sonorous voice which boomed out like a dinner-gong.</p><p>“I agree with Mr. Wilder, Dr Huxtable, that you would have done wisely to consult me. But since Mr. Holmes has already been taken into your confidence, it would indeed be absurd that you should not avail yourself of his services.”</p><p>Sherlock bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment of this largess.</p><p>“Then I will start my investigation immediately, perhaps Dr Huxtable you might ask a member of your staff to direct me to the missing master’s room.”</p><p>Then turning to the Duke and his assistant, he gave them his sweetest smile. “Thank you, your Grace… and if I locate your son in the process, I will not hesitate to let you know.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Who will come to carry me home?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sherlock investigates and John comes round.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock swept towards the doorway, his coat swirling behind him, but when he reached the door he stopped, turned and addressed the Duke directly.</p><p>“You have, I must assume, informed your wife of these events?”</p><p>“Naturally.” The Duke replied, “The Duchess has returned to England and is presently in London liaising with her bankers, although she is expected at Holderness imminently.”</p><p>“Naturally.” Sherlock echoed thoughtfully before turning again and leaving the room.</p><p>In the corridor outside the Headmaster’s study Sherlock found the teacher who had greeted them on arrival. He introduced himself as Tony Aveling, the geography master, and said.</p><p>“Your bag has been taken to a guest room on the first floor, I can take you there or you may wish to start your investigations immediately. Dr Huxtable has asked me to give you whatever assistance you require.”</p><p>Sherlock reflected that it was a good thing that this instruction had been issued before the meeting with the Duke and his assistant.</p><p>“I would prefer to start immediately, if you could direct me to Dr Watson’s rooms.”</p><p>“I’ll take you.” Aveling replied. “This place is a rabbit warren; it is bad enough if you live here.”</p><p>Sherlock thought this was possibly a ruse, and that there was almost certainly a directive not to allow him to look around on his own. But as the geography teacher led him away from the Headmaster’s study down one passageway and then another until they came to a small door partially hidden by a curtain, Sherlock supposed that it did save time to have an escort. The door opened onto the cloisters that surrounded the central courtyard of the old priory.</p><p>“This way” Aveling said cheerfully, “Dr Watson’s rooms are in the Western wing, most of the single residential masters live there, it is handy for the science labs and classrooms on the ground floor. You can walk through the building, but you’re less likely to get lost going round the outside, and it will give you an idea of the lay of the land. The boys have study bedrooms in the Southern and Eastern wings, the dining room and kitchens are in South too. The Northern wing has the offices and more classrooms. The Headmaster and the residential married staff have houses in the grounds.</p><p>“I am so delighted to meet you.” Aveling chattered on, they had reached a similar door to the one they had come out of which Sherlock took to be the entrance to the Western wing, “we had no idea of course that our Dr Watson was <em>the </em>Dr Watson, you really did take everyone by surprised. You must tell us later, how you pulled it off.”</p><p>Sherlock had absolutely no intention of doing any such thing, but nodded anyway, distracted by the sights and sounds of the school… John’s home.</p><p>Aveling fumbled with a key and let them into the Western wing, there was a steep flight of stone stairs immediately in front of them and as Sherlock followed the geography master, he wondered how John had managed to negotiate them every day with his limp. As if reading his mind, Aveling said, “these were the nicest vacant set when John joined the school. We offered to find something on the ground floor, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He had his pride, as I’m sure you know.”</p><p>Sherlock agreed. Aveling turned into the corridor at the top of the stairs and stopped at the first door, producing another set of keys.</p><p>“Does everyone have keys to all the rooms?” Sherlock asked in surprise.</p><p>“Not at all, I thought you would probably want to examine his room, so I fetched the spare set from the Bursar’s office while you were in with the Duke. Although, when we discovered John was missing, his room wasn’t locked. Dr Huxtable has ordered it to be locked since.”</p><p>Aveling pushed open the door to allow Sherlock to enter first and he found himself standing in a comfortable sitting room that doubled as a study. There were two upholstered armchairs, not unlike John’s chair at Baker Street, either side of the fireplace, and a table and chairs and a large bookcase. On the desk there was a newspaper open at a half completed sudoku and a chewed biro, next to a new laptop stood a stack of exercise books and science worksheets.  The four doors off this room revealed a bathroom, a kitchen, a cupboard and the bedroom. It was this room that Sherlock turned to first, although larger than John’s room at Baker Street and differently laid out there was something quintessentially John about the room. It was neat and tidy as he might have expected, but there was a spy novel open face down on the bedside table, next to glass of water. The bed was unmade, as if someone had just got up out of it, but the bottom sheet was neatly tucked in with ‘hospital corners’ just as it always had been.</p><p>Sherlock systematically began to search the room, starting with the wardrobe and under the bed, before going through the chest of drawers. The first two drawers contained a jumble of socks and underclothes, Sherlock smile ruefully, he had never been able to persuade his flatmate of the benefits of a proper index. The next drawer down contained neatly folded tee-shirts and the bottom one John’s motley collection of jumpers. He bent and picked one up, all John’s jumpers were hideous by default, but this one, the blue Christmas one with the fair isle yoke had particularly bad associations, all the same Sherlock brought it to his face and inhaled deeply… <em>John!</em></p><p>There was a small cough from behind him, Sherlock dropped the garment as if it had burned him and quickly looked underneath the rest of the jumpers.</p><p>Aveling was standing close behind him, “can I help you at all, are you looking for anything in particular?”</p><p>Sherlock shook his head. “I’ll know when I find it.”</p><p>Abandoning the bedroom and ignoring the study for the moment, Sherlock went into the kitchen. It was so small it hardly earned the name, but then he supposed that John would eat most of his meals in the school dining room. The contents of the cupboards bore this out, just a sliced loaf and two types of jam, a couple of tins of soup and, on the top shelf, a huge catering size box of teabags. Teabags! John had always preferred loose leaf tea, and still did if contents of the caddy and the sprinkling of leaves in the teapot on the counter were anything to go by.</p><p>Turning his back to Aveling, Sherlock briefly lifted the box down, it was heavy, very heavy indeed. He slid the box back in place, he would come back later, without a chaperone, to confirm his suspicions but he was 99.9% certain that the box contained John’s gun and if John’s gun was still in his rooms then Sherlock could state with absolute conviction that he had nothing to do with the disappearance of the boy.</p><p>Sherlock mentally walked around John’s rooms deducing the doctor’s movements, <em>John got out of bed, went into the kitchen and started to make tea but got distracted, </em>by something? Sherlock turned and looked out of the kitchen’s tiny window, the blind was up and even in the dark he could clearly see the building opposite. He was joined by Aveling who exclaimed.</p><p>“How extraordinary, it never occurred to me before, but you can almost see directly into Saltire’s room from here.”</p><p>Sherlock was deeply satisfied to have his deduction confirmed without asking. <em>That was it, John had seen the boy climbing down the ivy and gone to investigate.</em></p><p>“Do you have a torch?” Sherlock asked the geography master, “or even better a flashlight?”</p><p>Aveling looked dubious, “Not a particularly good one, but there are emergency supplies in the cupboard by the Bursar’s office, there’s bound to be something suitable there.”</p><p>“Excellent, lead on.”</p><p>The two men retraced their steps back to the main building, the cloisters were well lit, and the lights shone down from the occupied rooms around the quad but Sherlock was aware of the darkness closing in just beyond the school walls, however further delay was intolerable.</p><p>The bursar’s office was a slightly smaller version of the Headmaster’s, Aveling knocked and went in with Sherlock close behind. The room contained a harassed woman wrestling with a photocopier, Jennifer, Sherlock assumed. She looked up when they entered but went back to her tasks once she had acknowledged them.  Aveling slipped the keys to John’s room back into the key cupboard and went to search for torches in what turned out to be a storeroom off the main office. With the other occupants of the room distracted, Sherlock swiftly pocketed the keys and followed him.</p><p>******</p><p>Equipped with two large torches, Aveling headed for the main door but Sherlock stopped him.</p><p>“I would prefer to go out via the bicycle sheds, the way John would have left, if that is possible.”</p><p>Aveling nodded and took Sherlock once again down the hallways that led to the cloisters. <em>Really</em>, Sherlock thought, <em>the place was a labyrinth.  </em></p><p>There was a narrow, archway opening out onto the grounds and playing fields from the Southern wing, and the bicycles were kept in a covered store next to the caretaker’s lodge. It wasn’t locked and the layout of the cloisters mean that that everyone wanting to go from east to west would walk past it, but none of the bicycles were secured.</p><p>“Mostly the bicycles belong to either a boy or a member of staff, but there are a few here that have been left behind when their owners moved on and anyone uses them. Dr Watson had his own, a rather smart mountain bike, I was rather jealous.”</p><p>“Are any other bicycles missing?”</p><p>“No, Dr Huxtable had that checked.”</p><p>“Did Arthur Saltire have a bicycle?”</p><p>Aveling thought for a moment. “No. I’m not even sure he could ride one,  I never saw him on one, but he is young, and it tends to be the slightly older boys who go out on bikes.”</p><p>The two men passed through the archway into the grounds, there were lights around the perimeter, but Sherlock was immediately aware of just how dark it could be in the open country. The moon was rising, full, not as much as it would have been two nights before, but bright and would be brighter still later on.  The two men set off round the outside of the building and approached the main drive, it wasn’t long, less than half a mile but if his limp was as pronounced as Dr Huxtable made out, Sherlock could understand why John had needed to cycle.</p><p>Both Sherlock and Aveling were young and fit and made short work of the walk and soon reached the gates which automatically opened. Sherlock noted the convenience, and that every visitor to the school would be aware of it.  As they passed though into the lane, Sherlock pointed to the left and asked Aveling.</p><p>“What’s up there?”</p><p>“Nothing, it’s the access road to the Priory Farm but otherwise a dead end.”</p><p>Satisfied, Sherlock turned to the right, it was the way the taxi had brough him and Dr Huxtable earlier and he had noted its twists and turns, including a steep, almost hairpin bend, about a mile before the lane reached the school.</p><p>“And what about over there?”, Sherlock swung his torch to show a stile and a gap in the hedge opposite.  </p><p>“Those fields belong to the farm.” Aveling replied, “But it is possible to walk along the bridle path to the main Mackleton road at the far side, I’ve done it myself when I have needed to catch the bus, it saves you quite a walk. It is rather like the short edge of an Isosceles triangle.”</p><p>Sherlock crossed the lane and shone his torch into the field, beckoning Aveling to join him. Together they looked at the path. “A good, all terrain cycle would manage this with ease, and the moon was full. I am certain Arthur Saltire was collected from the school in some vehicle and that Dr Watson cycled down this path intending to head them off. What I need to discover is what happened next.”</p><p> </p><p>******</p><p>John woke to a darkness that was so absolute that, in the absence of anything covering his face, he wondered if he had been struck blind. He dimly remembered a blow to the back of his head, and the residual headache confirmed it.</p><p>He tried to assimilate his situation, but the pain in his head made it hard to concentrate. He ran a hand over his face and judged from his stubble that it was at least twenty-four hours since his morning shave.</p><p>He was cold, he knew he must try to stay awake.</p><p>He slept.</p><p>******</p><p>The next time John woke, the pain in his head had subsided and while not completely faded he felt much more awake.</p><p>He was also considerably more aware of his surroundings, he still was encompassed in complete darkness, but he knew instinctively that he was not blind, but rather in a place so deep that no light penetrated it. A cellar? Or more likely a cave.</p><p>There was something underneath him, something soft and scratchy, a rug or sack of some kind and John wondered how it had got there, and why it had been left with him. But he was grateful for the small protection it gave him from the cold stone.</p><p>Gingerly, conscious of his head injury, John sat up. There was possibly room above his head to stand but he wasn’t quite up to that. He stretched out his left arm and touched nothing, then did the same with the right and saw a faint green light. His watch! He tapped it until it revealed the time, 9.39. John rubbed his hand across his face again, from his stubble he was almost certain that it was the evening, rather than the following day.</p><p>It was then that he realised just how cold his hands were, and he stuffed them into the pockets of his trousers. His left hand closed on something, which his brain informed him was chalk, of course these were his work trousers, which meant in the right pocket, yes, there was his handkerchief and a tube of mints. He took a couple eagerly, but restrained himself from eating them all, who knew how long they would have to last.</p><p>The events of the previous night were coming back to him and he suddenly remembered the boy. John senses told him that he was alone, but he had to try to be sure. He called loudly “Arthur”, the sound echoed but there was no answer, still he called out the name again, and once more.</p><p>Hoping that the silence meant that he was alone rather than the fact that Arthur was nearby but unconscious, John applied himself to his predicament. He was a doctor and a soldier and was trained in survival techniques but nothing in the Afghan desert really compare to this. But he had also studied under the master of deduction, as he relished the comforting flavour of the mint, he let his mind wander. What would Sherlock do?</p><p>John did not have a mind palace, but, despite what Sherlock had like to infer, neither was he a complete idiot. As his mind grew clearer, he began to list what he thought he could know.</p><p>The Peak District was riddled with caves and caverns, a number were open to the public, John had even visited a couple of them during his excursions in the summer. But there were dozens on private land or too inhospitable for anyone but the most experienced cavers to navigate. John suspected this cave was probably in the first category rather than the second.</p><p>John had only glimpsed the man with Arthur but from what he had seen the man had not been dressed for caving.  Might they have had equipment with them? Perhaps, but they hadn’t expected to have to deal with a witness. Could they have gone somewhere to get the equipment? Possibly but that would have risked John regaining consciousness before they had dumped him. John concluded that leaving him in the cave had been a spur of the moment decision and that despite the darkness he probably wasn’t that far from an entrance.</p><p>However, there were all manner of hazards in a cave in the dark, ledges and sudden drops, water, and the biggest danger of all, that he would inadvertently travel in the wrong direction, away from the entrance and deeper into the cave.</p><p>He took another mint, and wrapped his arms around his chest, now he was more awake he was more conscious of the cold, he needed to make a decision quickly.</p><p>Something soft fluttered by him, a breeze? A bird? no bats.</p><p>John wasn’t particularly keen on bats, but he seemed to remember something about bats in caves, not to drink water where bats lived, but there was something else. That bats left their caves at night. He rubbed his chin again; he was pretty certain that it was night, but not entirely sure.</p><p>John  felt the disturbance in the air again, more bats, in his mind he followed their direction. It was a risk but what choice did he have? He could either wait where he was until he died of hypothermia or he could try to find a way out and die in the attempt.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Aveling is a character from the Granada TV version of this ACD story, borrowed because Sherlock needed an assistant.<br/>I haven't watched much of the Granada Sherlock so when I did watch this the other day I was a bit miffed with some of the similarities with the form this fic was taking.<br/>Nothing new under the sun.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. No Warmth Filters Down through the Dark</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sherlock's investigation continues</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was clear that Tony Aveling didn’t want to hang about, and Sherlock had to concede that despite the torches and the light of the moon there were limits to how far even he could investigate in the dark.</p><p>Reluctantly, he turned away from the stile and followed Aveling back through the gate and up the drive to the school building. Aveling wittered something about dinner, but Sherlock ignored him, <em>didn’t the man realise he was on a case</em>?</p><p>He summoned up enough politeness to refuse a meal in the Masters’ dining room and allowed Aveling to show him to the room he would be staying. Once on his own, he lay down on the bed to file his observations on the case so far until the bell on the clock tower struck eight, the appointed time for dinner. He then made his way stealthily to John’s room where he collected John’s SIG from its hiding place, liberated half a dozen bullets from a box of pencils on the desk, and helped himself to the laptop for good measure.</p><p>Mission accomplished and back in his room, he secreted the gun about his person and put the computer on to charge, he would break into that later.</p><p>Sherlock’s next port of call was to the kitchens; the boys had their main meal at midday so there was only a skeleton crew in to provide them with tea and to cook for the residential staff. He had already deduced that while an establishment such as The Priory School might employ a residential Head Cook, or catering manager, the bulk of the staff would be drawn from the surrounding villages and know the area well.</p><p>He slipped into the large kitchen and observed the scene initially unnoticed. At this stage int the evening, with the main courses served, the atmosphere was beginning to relax and move away from the earlier bustle and busyness. He spotted two women clearing plates into a food waste bin over by the sinks, while another woman in a white coat was ladling fruit salad into a large serving bowl while a young man did the same with what appeared to be Eton Mess. (Sherlock’s stomach couldn’t help a small rumble, Eton Mess was a particular favourite). There were double doors the far side of the kitchen which Sherlock assumed led to the dining rooms, as a young woman in a black dress and white apron stood leaning against one so that it opened slightly and she could peak through. A second woman, also in black, was doing something with a filter coffee machine.</p><p>Spotting a gap in the proceedings, Sherlock went over to the woman in the white coat and cleared his throat. The woman gave a start, and her assistant also looked up.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” the woman said in a voice that clearly indicated she was nothing of the sort, “but you shouldn’t be in here.”</p><p>Sherlock was never put off easily.</p><p>“I was hoping to find someone who could help me. My name is…”</p><p>She quickly cut him off,  “I know who you are, it’s all round the school, but I’m afraid I must ask you to leave. No visitors are allowed in the kitchens.”</p><p>Sherlock stood his ground, “I am investigating the disappearance of Dr Watson, I was hoping that there might be someone who works here who lives locally I could talk to. Preferably as close to the Holderness estate as possible.”</p><p>The woman relaxed a little, “We’re not supposed to talk about the boy’s disappearance, we’ve been told it’s instant dismissal but if it helps you find that nice Dr Watson then I can’t see any harm in it. You’d best have a chat with Debbie” she pointed to red-headed woman (<em>divorced, one child, lives with her brother, two cats and a cockatoo</em>) who had finished clearing plates and was now loading them into one of the dishwashers, “She lives on the estate.”</p><p><em>Better than he had expected</em>, Sherlock thought, “Thank you, Mrs…?”</p><p>“Mrs Gray, I am the Head Cook. Tell Debs she can have a break to talk to you, Robbie here can cover.”</p><p>Sherlock walked over to the woman by the sinks and passed the message on. Debbie briefly looked over to Mrs Gray who nodded and carried on with her work. Debbie quickly finished loading the machine and set it off. “Let’s get some fresh air, there’s a few minutes before they clear the tables of the main course.”</p><p>Debbie removed her apron and took a jacket from a hook by another small door and put it on. Opening the door, she led Sherlock through the covered bin area that abutted the kitchen and then the gap in the perimeter wall, until they were out in the grounds. <em>Really a person could be lost for days.</em></p><p>“Might as well have a fag while I’m here. We’re not supposed to but…” She reached in the jacket pocket and drew out a packet of cigarettes and a cheap lighter, “but then we are not supposed to talk about the Duke either.”</p><p>“I think I’ll join you.” Sherlock produced his own cigarettes, lit one, and inhaled with great satisfaction.</p><p>Camaraderie established, Debbie was instantly more talkative, “I am only going to help you because of Dr Watson, I really don’t want to lose my job, but he is such a nice man, no side to him, never talked down to us because we were just domestics.”</p><p>“Yes, a very nice man, he was my friend.”</p><p>“Was? You don’t think…” she trailed off, not wanting to voice her fears.</p><p>“No,” Sherlock quickly replied, “I just meant I haven’t seen him for a couple of years; he used to hide these from me,” Sherlock indicated the cigarette.</p><p>Debbie laughed, “yeah, we all have friends like that. So, what do you want to know?”</p><p>“How well do you know the Holderness estate, Mrs Gray said you live there.”</p><p>“All my life, apart from the few years I was married and lived in Buxton. My dad was head groundsman, and my brother took over when he retired. I grew up in the cottage where I live now.”</p><p>“You knew the Duke when he was a young man?” Sherlock reckoned Debbie to be around five or six years the Duke’s junior but despite the age gap, and the difference in class, he was sure their paths would have crossed.</p><p>“Not really, Lord Arthur was the second son and didn’t spend much time on the estate, the family lived mostly in London although they had a house the other side of Mackleton.”</p><p>“Lord Arthur?” Sherlock queried, thinking of the missing boy.</p><p>“I know, confusing isn’t it, you would think of all the names in the world they would go for a bit of variety. Let me see if I can explain…” she took another drag on her cigarette. “when I was growing up the duke was the seventh duke, Edwin, I think that was his Christian name, but I never heard it used. He was quite an old man when I was born, and his wife had already passed; he died when I was seven or eight. They had a handful of children, but only the boys counted,” she laughed and went on, “Lord Saltire, he became the eighth duke, Lord Arthur was his younger brother, quite a few years younger; he was the present duke’s father.</p><p>“The eighth duke was married to Lady Anne, lovely woman, always made a fuss of the estate children, remembered your name and your birthday and whatnot. They had two daughters, Lady Isobel and Lady Amanda, they are just a bit older than me and I remember the excitement of having some of their hand-me-downs, the more practical ones, not the ballgowns. But the eighth duke had no boys and I think that’s what caused the trouble, because Lord Arthur, the brother I mentioned, had two. They were Master Arthur, the present duke, the one whose son is here, and his brother, Master Alex.”</p><p>Sherlock extrapolated the relevant information from the detritus of ballgowns and birthdays that littered Debbie’s account.</p><p>“The present duke inherited from his uncle?”</p><p>“No, Lord Arthur became the duke when his brother died, but then he died too, a couple of years later. It was a shock, because he was only just over seventy, but folk round here said he never got over the death of Master Alex. That had happened a few months before.”</p><p>Sherlock thought there was something in what she was saying but he couldn’t quite grasp it.</p><p>“When was this?”</p><p>“I got married in 1990, the eighth duke was still alive then, they gave us a dinner service, I’ve still got it. But by the time I came back to live on the estate, that was at the end of ’95, it was the new duke, the tenth one.”</p><p>“Tell me about him, you must have got to know him better now?”</p><p>Debbie looked around conspiratorially but there was no one in sight.</p><p>“Very strict, very fair, a cold one really, never cracks his face, always looks worried to death. He was a bit more human while he was married, and when the kids came along, especially Lord Saltire, the son and heir, but since her ladyship upped and left, he’s gone back to being as moody as he ever was. No wonder she didn’t stick it out.”</p><p>“What about her ladyship?”</p><p>“She was ok, she used to come across quite haughty at first but really she was just a fish out of water what with being Russian and that, but she kind of grew into the job. Yes, she was nice, shame they split up, she was the best of them.”</p><p>Debbie glanced at her watch. “I’d better go in; I can’t leave them to finish up on their own. Listen, my brother knows a lot more about what’s gone on over the years on the estate, give me your phone and I’ll give you Steve’s number if you think it would be useful to talk to him.”</p><p>Sherlock handed over his phone and she tapped the number in, then they made their way back to the kitchens. The desert course had been served in their absence and the maids had taken out coffee. There was a substantial bowl of Eton Mess left on the side and Sherlock’s expression at the sight of it was less than subtle.</p><p>Debbie laughed again, “could tell a mile off you were a public schoolboy. Would you like some?”</p><p>Sherlock nodded and accepted a large helping and a mug of coffee gratefully. He had a long night ahead.</p><p>******</p><p>Once in the room he had been allocated in the Western wing of the school, Sherlock wasted no time in firing up John’s laptop. He was surprised to find that <em>5h3r10ckk££P0uT</em> still worked, he had expected to have to exercise his deductive powers. No doubt it was inertia that had caused John to leave his password unchanged for over two years.</p><p>Connecting to the internet, Sherlock proceeded to spend the next hour or so googling anything and everything to go with the Dukes of Holderness, Natasha Petrovna and her family, the Holderness estate, the Priory School and the area surrounding Mackleton. His mind buzzed with unanswered questions: <em>Who had enticed the boy away from the school? Why was the Duke so unperturbed by his only son’s disappearance? How much was the ransom and how was it to be paid? What part did the mother have to play in this? Where was John?</em></p><p>That was his biggest concern, Sherlock knew he wouldn’t be able to continue his investigation until first light, by which time John would have been missing for over forty-eight hours. With every hour that passed the chances of finding John alive diminished. <em>It was intolerable, he had not endured two years of exile, of physical and mental torture in the pursuit of John’s safety to have him die just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.</em></p><p>Around eleven there was a knock on the door, Tony Aveling checking that he had everything he needed. Sherlock immediately said yes but then remembered that the man was a geography teacher and asked if he had a large-scale ordinance survey map of the area. Aveling did and after he had fetched it, spent a couple of hours describing the lay of the land, the roads and bridlepaths, the geographical features and what he knew of the Holderness estate.</p><p>“All this” Aveling said pointing to the fields they had looked over earlier, “belongs to the Priory Farm, that dates back to when this place really was a priory.  But once you get beyond that and the main road to Mackleton, then all the land as far as you can see is part of the Holderness estate. Of course, it isn’t all cultivated, past the farm, there stretches a great rolling moor, Lower Gill Moor. The other side of this wilderness is Holderness Hall, ten miles by road, but only six across the moor, although you need an off-roader to get across the moors and even then, only with difficulty.”</p><p>Aveling pointed to another part of the map, “this is the problem. It’s a rocky outcrop, all cliffs and caves, known locally as the 'Ragged Shaw’, no idea why but it makes the whole area pretty inhospitable, just a few sheep.”</p><p>“Caves?” Sherlock was aware that he had heard caves mentioned before but for the moment the context eluded him.</p><p>“They’re all over the Peaks, there’s the spectacular show caves, like the Heights of Abraham, or Poole’s Cavern, big tourist attractions, then there’s the lesser known ones like Doves Hole. Then there’s places like Ragged Shaw, on private land that the general public don’t know about.”</p><p>Sherlock looked again at the map, utterly convinced that the key to John’s disappearance, and the boy’s lay on the Holderness estate. However, he could not test that theory until morning, until then he would continue his investigations online.</p><p>******</p><p>John was not generally an indecisive man, but a glance at his watch revealed that he had spent far longer than he intended trying to absorb the movements in the air and from that determining the direction that the bats were moving in. He was a certain as he could be that he should set out to his left, but the complete darkness made taking that the first step an enormous deal.</p><p>He was still concerned about Arthur, although he was almost certain he was alone he knew he would never forgive himself he it turned out he had abandoned the boy. He took the chalk from his pocket and marked a cross on the stone. John couldn’t see it but trusted that it was there. He would mark his route at regular intervals as he made his way out.</p><p>He had worked out that the scratchy material beneath him was some kind of blanket, and he pulled it around his shoulders and tied it there, he needed all the help he could get to fight the cold, damp air of the cave. Tentatively, feeling his way along a wall of rock, good arm stretched upwards, conscious that another blow to his already fragile head would be serious debilitating if not fatal, he stood up. There was room, at least where he was, to walk normally but the absolute darkness made him react with a swooping sensation that fooled him into thinking that at any moment he would fall off the edge of a precipice. His inbuilt proprioception abandoned him, and he felt so nauseous and disorientated that he managed only a few steps forward before sinking to his hands and knees again. It seemed he would have to crawl.</p><p>It was an agonisingly slow progress, feeling the way in front for obstacles, rocks and ledges, bat droppings and other pitfalls. In the darkness, cut off from sight and sounds he was startled to find himself thinking about Sherlock and wondering what he was doing right now. Probably blowing up the kitchen at 221b or getting under Greg’s feet, no doubt. The idea of his friend back where he belonged in London, going about his ordinary extraordinary business was immensely comforting. Yet at the same time the thought that he might die without ever seeing Sherlock again was incredibly painful.</p><p><em>I should have gone to see him</em> John thought, <em>I was wrong to stay away. Life is too short to hold grudges.</em></p><p>He went on, inch by painful inch, mostly crawling though occasionally he dropped to his belly to give his knees a break. John had little sense of time passing, sometimes when he stopped to look at his watch it was ten minutes, other times an hour, it didn’t seem to be getting any lighter, so he was still nowhere near an entrance. That thought panicked him a little, <em>was the passage getting narrower, was he in fact going deeper in?</em></p><p>Suddenly he felt the rock beneath his hands was not just damp but wet, and at the same time a drop of water splashed down on his face. Cautiously he caught the drop with the tip of his tongue, the water tasted peaty but not sour, he held out his hand to catch a few drops more, the water tasted much better than it had the right to. Using his handkerchief to soak up the drops and then sucking on the cloth, it took a good hour to catch enough to consider himself rehydrated but John thought the time well spent, he went onwards with renewed energy.</p><p>
  <em>He had survived a sniper’s bullet and a Semtex vest he would survive this.</em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Must I Face this All on My Own?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock surmised that five thirty in the morning was not too early to telephone a countryman like Debbie’s brother Steve. He also surmised that his sister would have told him to expect a call. He was correct on both counts.</p><p>Steve listened to Sherlock’s requests without interruption, it was clear he had heard all about the missing boy and Dr Watson. Once he was sure that the detective had finished, he answered simply, “I will meet you at the gates at quarter past seven, I’ll be in the truck.”</p><p>Sherlock rang off and went to have shower, then dressed in the clothes he had brought with him in expectation of this event – jeans, t-shirt, hoodie and trainers. He noted that the jeans, which predated his fall were, despite the recent efforts of Mrs Hudson, still too large round the waist and had to be secured with his belt. He topped the ensemble with a waterproof jacket but decided against taking John’s gun which he locked in his suitcase. He pocketed his phone and a few other requisites for a morning’s detecting and made his way outside.</p><p>The school was waking up, lights shone through the windows of the wings around the central courtyard. Sherlock wanted to avoid an encounter with anyone who might wish to impede his investigations but acknowledged he was hungry, so he slipped into the kitchen the way he left the night before. It was a different set of staff preparing breakfast, but he managed to commandeer a mug of tea and some toast and honey, before making his escape and setting off down the driveway to meet Steve just as the sun was rising.</p><p>******</p><p>While Sherlock held a comprehensive record of motor vehicles, particularly those used in the pursuit of crime (getaway cars, non-accidental road traffic accidents and the like), stored in his mind palace he saw at a glance that the truck that was waiting for him was no ordinary off-road vehicle, but had been subject to some highly specific modification.</p><p>“Mr Holmes?”</p><p>Steve had wound down the driver’s window to call to Sherlock.  Sherlock reached the passenger door of the truck just as it was opened by a youth of around nineteen. That he was Debbie’s son was obvious to Sherlock even before Steve introduced him as his nephew, Danny. The boy looked half asleep, but he jumped down from the cab quickly enough and walked to the rear of the jeep and lifted down a bicycle.</p><p>“Hop in.”</p><p>Sherlock did as he was told, and Steve put the truck into gear and set off back the way he had come. In the mirror Sherlock watched as Danny pushed the bike through the gap in the hedge and clambered over the stile, climbed on and started peddling furiously down the bridlepath. He was soon out of sight.</p><p>With the truck’s raised suspension Sherlock realised he had a marvellous vantage point to view the surrounding landscape and said so. Sherlock instantly knew he had made a mistake; Steve it appeared was a man of few words, except when it came to the truck. After the complete low down on the truck’s spec from the 124mm suspension lift to the rocky terrain tyres specially imported from Italy, Sherlock soon knew more than he ever wanted to about customising a Land Rover.</p><p>“You did this?” He asked distractedly, all the while scanning the passing countryside.</p><p>“No, a firm over in Bakewell did most of the work, but Her Grace and I drew up the spec. We wanted something that could cover the whole estate.”</p><p>Steve handled the truck well and navigated the twists and turns in the lane without difficulty, but Sherlock noted that they rarely got above twenty miles an hour. As the truck made its way back on itself the other side of the Priory Farm, Sherlock could see how it would be much quicker to cycle over the fields, and to prove the point, as they drew close to the junction, there was Danny half obscured by the trees.</p><p>Steve pulled over and both he and Sherlock got out to join Danny. The sun was climbing in the sky, but the light was still hazy. Sherlock took a quick reconnaissance of the area but could see nothing to indicate that John had passed that way, <em>was it too much to ask for the imprint of a bicycle tyre or the thread from a jumper?</em> Nevertheless, Sherlock was still convinced his theory was the right one.</p><p>The two men got back into the truck and Danny remounted his bike. Sherlock surveyed the roads ahead, while they had both described it as a crossroads, it hardly merited the name. The lane to the left was even narrower than the one they were on, and on the right, the signpost read ‘Private Road - Ash End Farm only’, leaving forward as the most obvious route to take. Without saying anything, Steve appeared to agree as he carried straight on. Sherlock continued to monitor Danny’s progress through the wing mirror but as the road straightened out and the truck picked up speed, he turned to Steve and said.</p><p>“It’s no good, we’ve lost him.”</p><p>Steve immediately pulled over and they waited for Danny to catch up, it was a few minutes before the boy appeared. His face was pink from the cold air, and despite being young and athletic, he was panting with exertion.</p><p>Sherlock was vexed. He had been convinced that John had trailed whatever vehicle had taken Arthur away, but it was impossible. John would not have kept up with a car and he said so. Danny agreed, “I should have hung on, you could have towed me.”</p><p>Sherlock looked at the boy and exclaimed, “Yes, exactly! Let’s try it.”</p><p>They set off again this time with Danny holding onto the tailgate, he wobbled at first but then settled down when he remembered not to try to pedal. Sherlock could see him in the mirror when he remembered to look but then it was daylight, it might not have been the case at night, and Steve agreed it made no difference to the steering.</p><p>But he added, “I can’t see it would have been possible with a car, nothing to hold on to.”</p><p>They drove on, Steve began to point out the landmarks, the stone walls of the Holderness land, he was almost on his own territory but at the same time he was beginning to have doubts, they were approaching a T-junction where they would have to make a choice, sharp left onto the main road towards the A503 and Mackleton, or to veer right and stay on the country lane towards Lower Gill Moor and the Duke’s estate.</p><p>Just as they reached the junction and Steve looked to Sherlock for a decision, Danny started waving frantically and shouting. His uncle braked sharply, and Sherlock called out of the window.</p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>“Look!” Danny shouted, pointing a few yards behind them, to the hedge that ran alongside the road, where on the other side, caught and mostly obscured by the branches, was a mountain bike.</p><p>Steve and Sherlock descended from the truck and walked back to join Danny at the spot. Steve made to fetch the bike, but Sherlock held him back as he quickly examined the scene, the flattened grass,  the mishmash of footprints, something that might be blood, all the signs of a scuffle.</p><p>“When did it rain here last?”</p><p>“Not since the weekend.”</p><p>Sherlock nodded, that was in keeping with the impressions in the muddy grass. He photographed what he could with his phone before standing up and saying.</p><p>“The bicycle.”</p><p>Between them the wrestled the bike from its resting place in the hedge. Sherlock quickly compared it to the description Aveling had given him. It was a high-end mountain bike, less than six months old – almost certainly John’s. Despite being thrown over a hedge it seemed to have come to no harm and had certainly not been in an accident.</p><p>“Do you think…” Danny’s voice trailed away before he carried on determinedly, “do you think Dr Watson might be around here somewhere too?”</p><p>Sherlock closed his eyes and shook the thought away. “No!”</p><p>Danny didn’t agree. “Wouldn’t they just leave him here? Make it look like he’d come off his bike in the dark.”</p><p>“No!” Sherlock said again. <em>How quickly they had fallen in to speaking of John in the past tense. </em></p><p>“Why not?” Danny persisted.</p><p>“Because of the missing boy.” Steve supplied, “Why would a teacher be out on the road in the middle of the night unless it was to do with the missing boy. It couldn’t be a coincidence.”</p><p>“The universe is rarely so lazy,” Sherlock murmured to himself before looking up and saying, “Unfortunately, John played into the hands of whoever took the boy by following them. He gifted them a perpetrator, someone from inside the school, for as long as he is missing no-one will really investigate who is really behind the kidnapping. Aside from me, that is…</p><p>“Let me think.” Sherlock put his hands over his ears and closed his eyes, “Quiet both of you”, he barked the order to the astonishment of his silent companions. “Just think, you have successfully abducted a boy but you’ve unwittingly gained a witness, you knock him out, kill him even but now you have a body on your hands, one that you don’t want discovered too quickly if at all so you and your accomplice… yes… you have to have had an accomplice, you couldn’t have overcome John on your own… you and your accomplice put the body in the car…”</p><p>“Pickup.” Danny interrupted.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I don’t think it was a car, if Dr Watson did what we think he did, it needed to have a tailgate or a bar at the back for him to hang on to.”</p><p>His uncle nodded in agreement.</p><p>Sherlock conceded, “If they had a four by four, they could have got anywhere,” he spun on his heels a full circle and surveyed the landscape before saying softly, “Where would you hide a body round here?”</p><p>He had said it as a rhetorical question, but Danny answered him immediately, “over in the Rocky Shaw.”</p><p>“The what?”</p><p>Danny went on. “Outsiders always think that the estate is a deserted wilderness but it’s not, unless a body was buried it wouldn’t be long before someone found it. This might all be the Duke’s private land, but the footpaths and bridlepaths are open, there are always ramblers and riders even in November, if the weather is good, which it has been. Then there were the shoots, that’s a dozen guns, plus loaders, beaters and dogs all over the Home Beat yesterday, and the same again on the Gillow Beat the day before, to say nothing of the caterers and servers. Then Jack brought the Home Farm sheep down from Ness Moor to Lower Penn yesterday, he and Pippa and the dogs were up and down all day.”</p><p>He turned to his uncle for confirmation.</p><p>“Yep, you’re right, that narrows it down abit, and if there’s a body out in the open up on the moors the carrion birds will find it even if we don’t.”</p><p>Sherlock shuddered at the thought and again marvelled at the ease at which they spoke of John as a corpse.</p><p>“What if they had the means to dig a grave?” Sherlock asked.</p><p>“Not a quick job round here, though we can keep an eye out for any disturbance in the ground. But I’m with Danny” Steve said, “my money would be on the Rocky Shaw, assuming they were locals, it’s a straight run from here. His Grace doesn’t allow caving on his land,” Steve explained to Sherlock. “A body could go undiscovered for years.”</p><p>With a heavy heart, and the absence of anything else to go on, Sherlock said, “Lead on then.”</p><p>They put both bicycles into the flat bed of the truck and Danny climbed into the cab behind Sherlock. Steve swung into the driver’s seat and started the truck. At the junction he took a sharp right and a few yards further along took a gentler right fork through a gap in the hedge onto the moorland.</p><p>There was no road to speak of, not even bare patches of earth or ruts to indicate where vehicles might have traversed the moors before. Steve explained again, “the Duke doesn’t permit green lane driving.”</p><p>Sherlock said it sounded like the Duke didn’t allow a lot of things. Steve agreed “Yep, he’s a very private man, he wouldn’t have any strangers on the land if he could help it. The footpaths are public right of ways but no doubt he’d close those if he could.”</p><p>“Yet he has organised shoots?”</p><p>“They started up under the old Duke, case of having to, the estate was bankrupt, and it’s hard to stop something once you’ve started, particularly if it is making money. We’ll need that even more from now on.”</p><p>Steve didn’t expand further but Sherlock read between the lines, there must be a certain amount of insecurity now the Duchess had departed with her millions.</p><p>Sherlock scoured the open countryside; they were travelling over a few low hills that were devoid of all vegetation apart from a scattering of gorse bushes and a few blades of stiff wiry grass. There were occasional ancient tracks, leading to ruined habitation but mostly the truck cut through the open land, avoiding the places where the jagged granite pushed through the sparce topsoil like a broken bone. The truck bounced and dipped along the rugged terrain, but Sherlock had to agree that it was a more comfortable ride that he might have expected.</p><p>In the silence he offered up a wordless prayer to a deity he did not believe in that they would find John (he refused to say <em>the body</em>) at the Ragged Shaw. If not, then they would be back to looking for a needle in a haystack.</p><p>******</p><p>Angry with himself, John realised he had slept again. It was not surprising, his energy levels were now seriously depleted, and yesterday… <em>was it yesterday? </em>He consulted his watch, yesterday he had reached a place where the cave had become too narrow to squeeze through. He had experienced a  moment of sheer panic before pulling himself together and steadily backtracking his way in the dark to a point where he discovered a new tunnel slightly to the left of the route he had taken. The only good thing about this was that he passed another place where cleanish water poured down the cave walls, but it had set him back five hours.</p><p>He looked at his watch again and calculated that he had now been trying to find his way out of the cave for forty-eight hours and the sense of panic welled up in him again, <em>what if, despite his precautions, he was actually journeying further in? </em>John tried to control his breathing, using the exercises Ella had shown him all those years ago. He reminded himself that it had only been two days, that blow to the head apart he was uninjured, he was a soldier and a doctor, and he would survive this. He wondered what the record was for surviving lost in a cave.  <em>Sherlock would know, he would ask him when he saw him next.</em></p><p>Reassured, John stood carefully and stretched his legs, he thought he was getting better at this, standing in the dark. He caught a few drops of water in his hand to drink and took another mint, his last but one, his stomach rumbled but his mouth felt better for it. He was ready to press on.</p><p>John chalked the wall inched forward a few paces before dropping to his hands and knees again. It occurred to him that it was getting lighter, but he had been fooled more than once before by the faintest shafts of light that briefly appeared through crevasses in the cave roof. He cupped his hands and drank as much water as he could manage. <em>Thirty days, </em>he thought<em>, something like thirty days. He would ask Sherlock when he saw him.</em></p><p>******</p><p>They had been climbing steadily, driving straight towards the scarps of the Ragged Shaw, Sherlock felt his ears pop. Suddenly the land flattened out and they were upon them, a hundred metres of sheer granite cliff looming out of the barren countryside.</p><p>“There’s plenty of entrances to the caves but this is the nearest, so it makes sense to start here, though we won’t be exploring far without equipment.” Steve said, pre-empting Sherlock’s next question. “Grab the torches Danny-boy.”</p><p>Sherlock followed Steve and Danny out the truck, while they were heading towards a gap in the rock that formed the mouth of the cave, the detective was cataloguing the sights and smells around him.</p><p>“Wait!” Sherlock beckoned them back to where he was standing. “When was the last time you were up here?”</p><p>Steve thought for a moment, “To be honest not since the Spring, I brought a geologist, from the University up here for a visit.”</p><p>Sherlock pointed at the tyre tracks at his feet. “They’ve not been here since the Spring; the ground is still wet.”</p><p>“You mean to say that someone has been here in the last couple of days?”</p><p>“Since the weekend, yes. £300 a pop you said, those tyres, specially imported from Italy… you won’t find many of those around here then.”</p><p>“No, I suppose not…” Steve answered slowly, unsure what Sherlock was getting at, but Danny cottoned on immediately.</p><p>“They’re the same, the tracks here were made by our truck!” He exclaimed.</p><p>“Well I’ll be blowed.” Steve said in disbelief.</p><p>Sherlock turned away from the tracks and began the climb to the mouth of the nearest cave. Steve and Danny followed him, Sherlock questioning Steve along the way.</p><p>“Who has access to your vehicle?”</p><p>“It’s not mine,” Steve corrected, “It’s an estate vehicle, it is kept in the mews with the others.”</p><p>“And the keys?”</p><p>“There’s a key cupboard in the estate office.”</p><p>“Would you notice if it had been moved?”</p><p>“I don’t take it out that often, I use the quad bike closer to the house.”</p><p>Sherlock continued his interrogation. “Who else drives it?”</p><p>Steve was quick to answer, “Roy, the gamekeeper, Pete, his assistant, Rogers, the agent, His Grace, although… if he goes out in it, it tends to be Mr Wilder who drives.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>as always with my works the chapter count is on the rise.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Dawn Breaks</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>It was getting lighter; John was sure of it. He looked up, but all was still complete darkness, the light was not coming from above. In which case… John felt giddy with relief. He wanted to stand up, to start running  towards it, but common sense prevailed. He had come too far to fall at the last hurdle.</p><p>He did stand up, leaning against the cave wall and creeping forward one small step at a time, closing his eyes to combat the slight dizziness he still felt stepping out into the darkness. Slowly, slowly… When he opened his eyes again, he was more certain still it was lighter, a faint fringe of grey at the edges of the dark. He pressed on, <em>he would do it, he would</em>.</p><p>******</p><p>Sherlock, Steve and Danny made their way up a gentle slope to the tall thin entrance of the cave. As they walked, Sherlock asked Steve about the people he had named as other drivers of the pickup.</p><p>Steve shrugged, “I know what you are getting at, but you are wrong to suspect any of them. Roy, the gamekeeper I have known all my life, he grew up on the estate, same as I did, and his father worked for the family same as mine did. Pete, that’s Roy’s second in command, he’s a village boy, family farmed round here for generations. Mr Rogers the land agent, he’s been here since the old duke’s time, must be twenty years.”</p><p>“And Mr Wilder, how long has he been with the Duke?”</p><p>“Six or seven years, thereabouts.”</p><p>“He must have excellent credentials.”</p><p>“What makes you say that?” Steve asked.</p><p>“Only that he is rather young to have held such a position for that length of time.”</p><p>“Goliath’s gate,” Steve pointed ahead, effectively changing the subject. “I would guess it gets its name due to its height, a giant wouldn’t need to duck his head. It’s like this for the first fifty metres or so before it drops down.”</p><p>“Stay here.” Steve turned to Danny and ordered, before handing a torch to Sherlock.</p><p>Danny pulled a face, but his Uncle was adamant. “You’ve got your phone? Got a signal?” the boy nodded “Right, if we are not back out in twenty minutes you phone the estate office, get them to raise the alarm. Got it?”</p><p>“Yes, Uncle Steven.”</p><p>“Right Mr Holmes, we’ll take a little look. This entrance is fairly easy going  to start off with but then the tunnel splits and it is easy enough to get lost. I don’t expect there to have been a rockfall, we’ve not had that much rain, but we are not taking any chances. No one knows we’re up here which is why we’re not all going in.” Steve looked at Danny again as he said this.</p><p>Sherlock took advantage and began to make his way into the cave.</p><p>“Wait” Steve shouted, “Behind me. I know these caves and you don’t. We’ve nothing but torches so we’re not going in far. We’ll take a quick look round just in case they left your friend here.”</p><p>Subdued, Sherlock fell behind Steve as he led the way through the chasm. It began as a very tall passage, the walls of which were coated with a film of minerals that glittered in the light of the torches that Sherlock would have found intriguing under different circumstances. Instead he focused on following Steve’s light as he carefully negotiated the smooth rock path further into the cave, just as John appeared from a second tunnel some three hundred metres north-west of Goliath’s gate.</p><p>******</p><p>John’s first thought as he emerged blinking into the morning mist was <em>thank God, thank God</em>. His second, rather less edifying thought was <em>“where the fuck am I?</em>”</p><p>He stood for a moment and surveyed the barren moor with its smattering of rocky outcrops breaking through the grey-green grass; he had never been so glad to see anything in his whole life. The combination of exhaustion and relief threatened to overwhelm him, but his innate stubbornness and determination made him press on, as in the cave, one step at a time.</p><p>There were no signs of life, no discernible sounds, no traffic, no birds, just the wild openness. The sun was obscured by clouds, there was no way of telling east from west. He reckoned he had about six hours before nightfall, he needed to find civilisation by then, he was in no state physically for a night in the open.</p><p>He hazarded a guess at west and started walking in that direction. As he rounded the point, he saw to his amazement just below him a pickup truck, which was surely an indication that there were people about. John lurched forward, stumbling over rocks and sliding on the wet grass, as he made his weary way towards the vehicle as quickly as he could, his head throbbing and every muscle in his exhausted body aching, yet fear that it might drive off before he reached it gave him the momentum to carry on.</p><p>John was within shouting distance of the truck and could see three figures walking towards it when it struck him that the truck could easily be the same one that he had attached himself to the night of Arthur Saltire’s abduction. He stopped in his tracks, suspecting a trap and looking for a place to hide, there were rocks, but they were nowhere near large enough and anyway it was too late. He had been spotted.</p><p>“Doctor Watson!” The voice came from a ginger haired youth who began scrambling up the hillside towards him.</p><p>“John!” A scrawny darker man in a hoody, called his name before running and overtaking the first boy.</p><p>The third figure jumped into the truck before heading along the track and overtaking them both.</p><p>John decided he was hallucinating as the hoody of the second man fell back revealing the dark curls and gaunt features of Sherlock Holmes, running so fast that he was practically tripping over his own  feet and so that when he reached John he had to grab him by the arms to avoid crashing into him.</p><p>“I thought you were dead!” Sherlock’s voice was heavy with emotion.</p><p>“That’s my line.” John gave a small laugh, then turning to look at the truck, “Oh good, you’ve got my bicycle,” he exclaimed, before fainting clean away.</p><p> </p><p>******</p><p>John insisted he was perfectly fine. He was hungry, tired and dirty, no doubt he would have nightmares for a week or two but otherwise he was perfectly fine. And he said so, several times. Steve produced a flask of tea from his holdall in the truck, Danny sacrifice his Mars Bar, and Sherlock held back from interrogating John until he had eaten and drunk both and was seated in the back seat of the truck with him, as Steve pulled away from the Ragged Shaw to head back to the road.</p><p>Steve wanted to take John straight to the cottage hospital in Mackleton, but John said he was fine – again – nothing that a bath, a warm meal and a good night’s sleep couldn’t sort out.</p><p>“All that matters is, have you found Arthur?”</p><p>Sherlock was startled, from the moment he had met the Duke and his assistant the day before he had ceased to worry about Arthur Saltire, to the extent that he had almost forgotten that the boy was missing presumed kidnapped. He tried to school his face, but his bewilderment must have shown as John turned his head in disgust.</p><p>“You don’t change, do you? Two years away and you’ve learnt nothing. A child is missing, Sherlock, an eight-year-old child, and you’re too busy gallivanting around the countryside looking for someone who can quite clearly look after himself, to care.”</p><p>Sherlock hurried to defend himself. “It’s a put-up job.”</p><p>“What?” Both John and Steve responded in unison.</p><p>“The boy’s kidnapping, it’s a put-up job.”</p><p>“What makes you so sure?” Steve asked, eyes never leaving the moor ahead.</p><p>Sherlock didn’t need to be asked twice; he had an audience to dazzle.</p><p>“It all comes down to the most tedious motivation, money. Estates like these are a bottomless pit. How much do you think you need to pour into it to keep a place like this going in a year? A million? Two? The more money you need to raise, the more it costs you to raise it. Open a gift shop, you need shop staff. Run a grouse shoot, as Danny told us, you need loaders, beaters, caterers, and Uncle Tom Cobley and all.</p><p>“The rot set in at Holderness Hall back in the 1940s when the sixth duke in an attempt to avoid death duties passed the estate to his eldest son, except that son was killed at Arnhem in 1944 and the estate reverted back to his father as next of kin. As a result, when the sixth duke died the estate was stung for crippling death duties which took years to settle and even longer to recover from. The seventh duke sold off some of the family silver, a Rubens and a Rembrandt, and most notably Carston House in Pall Mall which kept the show on the road for a few more years, but while the Dukes of Holderness might have still been land rich, they were cash poor, and things were about to get worse.</p><p>“The eighth duke died in 1993, the estate passed to his brother along with the bulk of the assets that went with it, but the eighth duke made two hefty bequests to his daughters Amanda and Isobel, and these had to be paid, so off went another couple of grand masters to auction. The ninth duke set out to circumvent inheritance taxes by transferring the estate to his son, but he died before the term of the transfer was complete and that left our present duke practically bankrupt. Despite never having lived here he had no wish to be the last Duke to do so, so he did what all impoverished aristos have been doing for centuries. He married an heiress.</p><p>“Only heiresses are not what they used to be, Natasha Petrovna while being fabulously wealthy keeps a very tight rein on the purse strings. She might be willing to splash out on the estate when it is her backdrop and the home of her husband and children, she may well continue when her son inherits but she’s not going to keep bankrolling her ex-husband.”</p><p>“Wait!” John interrupted, “you know all this how?”</p><p>“A couple of hours on google last night, plus what Debbie, Aveling and you Steve told me.”</p><p>“I didn’t say anything about the estate’s finances.” Steve protested.</p><p>“Only that there would be a need for more grouse shooting in future.” Sherlock replied smugly, before going on. “The Duchess invested heavily in the Holderness estate and now it is in a much better place financially than when he inherited but that doesn’t mean that the Duke’s money worries are over. He has another issue, and I use that word deliberately, that needs to be provided for.</p><p>“That’s where the supposed kidnapping comes in, it is nothing more than a scheme to extort a large sum of money from the Duchess, who frankly has more than she knows what to do with, that will address the Duke’s cash flow problems and provide for his other dependent. They arrange to remove Arthur from school at night and in secret. Lure him away with a letter, probably in the letter that supposedly came from his father the day he disappeared. This letter contains the information that his mother is in the neighbourhood and wishes to see him. Arthur despite his young age knows that his parents have separated, doesn’t want to upset his father but at the same time longs to see his mummy. No doubt creeping out in the middle of the night makes perfect sense to him. He’s not afraid, he knows the person who will take him to her very well.”</p><p>Sherlock paused for effect. “He has a likeness to his father.”</p><p>“Who has?” John asked.</p><p>“James Wilder! Arthur’s kidnapper and your assailant.” Sherlock declared with a flourish.</p><p>“How do you know his father?” Steve asked.</p><p>“I have met the Duke.” Sherlock replied.</p><p>Steve laughed, “Just when I was starting to think you knew everything.”</p><p>They had reached the gap in the hedgerow that led out to the road. Steve pulled up and turned to John, “are you sure about the hospital?”</p><p>“Quite sure.”</p><p>Steve glanced at Danny and then sighed, “I suppose you’re old enough to know the Holderness secrets now.” He switched off the engine and then turning back to Sherlock said.</p><p>“James Wilder isn’t the duke’s son; his father was Alexander.”</p><p>Sherlock groaned, “There’s always something.” Then aware of Steve’s reluctance Sherlock said “Go on, tell us what you know”</p><p>Steve started slowly, conscious that it wasn’t his story to tell. “Alexander was a country boy at heart, even though that branch of the family lived in London most of the year, his parents kept a house on the estate, Holderness Lodge, and his mother would bring him here during the school holidays. I got to know him quite well then.  He was always a daredevil, climbing things, or diving off things, the world was too small for Alexander, live fast, die young and be a beautiful corpse he used to say to me, well he managed the first two at least.</p><p>“Alex got involved with a girl from the village, one of the Wilder girls, Joanna. She was as crazy as he was, nothing she wasn’t up for. Any road, she ended up in the family way, and James was the result. Alex was no more than about twenty-two then, I guess he didn’t want to be tied down, but neither did she. They left the baby with Jo’s older sister Julie and off they went. Julie had married the landlord of the Fighting Cock, that’s the pub just on the left as you go into the village, they didn’t have any children of their own.”</p><p>“Where is Joanna now?”</p><p>“Dead. After she split up with Alex she took up with another bloke and came off his motorbike one night in the fog on the M6, killed instantly. Alex was abroad when it happened, but like I said they weren’t together by then. A year later, Alex was killed caving in South Wales.</p><p>“When the Duke, the present duke that is, inherited he knew that most of the staff had an inkling that James Wilder was Alex’s son. His Grace told me that Alex had wanted to do the right thing by the girl and make sure she was provided for. Reuben Hayes, Julie's husband is a miserable fellow; he ran the pub into the ground and lost his licence, so the Duke brought them up here to live in the Lodge, his parents’ old house. Julie works in the Hall and Reuben does odd jobs, beating and the like. Then when James left school, the Duke took him on as his assistant, with the idea of him talking over as land agent when Rogers retires, which seemed fair enough.</p><p>“I suppose James might reckon he has rights. That the estate owes him something on account of his father, and a bit more than a job and a pension at the end of it. But you’re right about the money, it’s all hers and there’s no reason for the Duchess to stump up anything for Alex’s by-blow, he’s no relation of hers. There’s no love lost between James and the Duchess either… Maybe you are right, Mr Holmes, and it is some scheme to swell the coffers for a few years and set James up with a legacy. Although I can’t see the Duke agreeing to it, but James… yes, I can see James coming up with  something along the lines.”</p><p>John interrupted, “For heaven’s sake, a child’s life is at risk here!”</p><p>Sherlock answered swiftly, “James Wilder won’t hurt Arthur, the Duchess will pay up, whatever they are asking for will be no more than loose change for her”</p><p>“Seriously?” John argued in disbelief “You seriously think that James Wilder is harmless?”</p><p>John looked at the three men in the truck with him and let out a sigh, “Have you forgotten that he left me in a cave to die!”</p><p>There was a long silence as they computed this fact, which was finally broken by Steve.</p><p>“Quo bono? Isn’t that what they ask when there’s a crime?”</p><p>Sherlock wanted to groan, the last thing he needed was a lover of legal dramas.</p><p>“James won’t gain anything if Arthur dies,” Steve continued, “the estates not entailed, there’s no such thing anymore but there is a trust and the house, the capital, and the land go with the title, there’s a cousin in Australia who gets the lot.”</p><p>“What if he’s not illegitimate?” John shot back.</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“You said Alexander told his brother that he wanted to do the right thing by the girl and the baby. You all took that to mean money and a roof over their head, but to me that sounds as if he intended to marry her.”</p><p>Again, John had the complete attention of his companions. “You don’t need to tell anyone, just post the notice and then turn up at the registrar’s office and grab a couple of witnesses off the street.”</p><p>“John…” Sherlock breathed the name almost reverently, “you are still a conductor of light.”</p><p>Sherlock took his phone from his pocket, he had two bars of a signal, and dialled, “If there is a marriage certificate anywhere with Alexander’s name on it Mycroft will find it...”</p><p>“Ah, brother mine. A small task for you, no legwork involved. Just any record of a marriage between Alexander Percival de Vere Beverley and a Joanna Wilder, any time between 1988 and 1989? Quick as you can.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Face the Lies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sky had been growing darker the whole time Sherlock had been talking and as Steve put the truck into gear the heavens opened, and the rain began in earnest. John shivered in the back seat of the truck and smiled gratefully when Sherlock slipped off his own coat and placed it over him.</p><p>They had not discussed what they should do next, but Steve had obviously made the decision for them, as he took the route back the way they had come that morning. They had just reached the sharp turn in the lane on the approach to the Priory School when Sherlock’s mobile rang. Sitting next to Sherlock, John observed the subtle changes in the detective’s body language as he read the name of the caller before answering. Stiff. Defensive.</p><p><em>No change there then despite two years absence</em>, John reflected, <em>still the same Sherlock where his brother is concerned. </em></p><p>The thought hit him with a jolt and John turned slightly to look at his former friend, whom he had mourned for so long but now was sitting beside him, in a pickup truck in the middle of The Peak District, arguing with his brother as if he had never been away.</p><p>Sherlock had always been slender but now he was positively gaunt, his cheekbones that had been the source of much envy were far too prominent and his eyes sunk into his face with the grey shadows beneath them. He was holding himself stiffly, but John wondered if there was a more sinister reason than just his displeasure at being beholden to his brother. For the first time since Sherlock’s return, John began to wonder just what had happened during that Boy’s Own Adventure Sherlock had been on.</p><p>Sherlock’s phone was turned up loud and John could hear Mycroft quite clearly.</p><p>“Why are you investigating one of the most illustrious personages in the land?”</p><p>John noted that Mycroft’s voice had lost none of its insufferably patronising tone in the last two years.</p><p>“What business is it of yours?” Sherlock snapped back.</p><p>“I am a servant of Her Majesty’s government of which His Grace the Duke of Holderness is a member, it is naturally a concern of mine.”</p><p>Sherlock made a disgusted noise which was so utterly familiar that it induced a pang of nostalgia in John.</p><p>Mycroft ignored Sherlock completely. “You may recall that you asked me to track down a marriage certificate pertaining to his Grace’s younger brother.”</p><p>“And did you?”</p><p>“It appears a  marriage took place between the two persons you mentioned on the 14<sup>th</sup> April 1989 at the register’s office in Ipswich.”</p><p>Sherlock said nothing but gave John a thumbs up.</p><p>“As ever, a ‘thank you’ is too much to expect.” Mycroft didn’t wait for a reply. “Goodbye Sherlock.  Kindly give my regards to Dr Watson.” And with that the line went dead.</p><p>John marvelled at Mycroft’s continued ability to make it appear that he had spies everywhere, even on the Derbyshire moors.</p><p>“Do either of you know when James Wilder’s birthday is?” Sherlock demanded.</p><p>“End of September,” Danny answered, “same as my mum.”</p><p>“We can assume then, that his parents were legally married at the time of his birth which makes him a legitimate child.”</p><p>“We need to go to the police,” John said urgently, “we need to find Arthur.”</p><p>“Not yet” Sherlock replied, “We have to get you looked at first.”</p><p>As they drew up at the school gates, John was still protesting that time was of the essence, but Sherlock was adamant.  Steve settled that argument by pressing the intercom and announcing their arrival. Despite his protests, John could not prevent a huge sigh of relief as the truck reached the top of the drive and he saw the familiar building that was also his home.</p><p>******</p><p>Although he expressed his fears for Arthur’s safety and the need to find the boy as soon as possible, John admitted that he was in no fit state to go haring over the Derbyshire countryside in search of the boy. He was exhausted and hungry, filthy dirty and his clothes torn, his hands were grazed and, in some places, still bleeding, his knees were cut to ribbons.</p><p>Steve and Danny had left, with the promise to say nothing of the morning’s adventures until Arthur was back home. Sherlock had hoped to manage his return with John without drawing too much attention to themselves, it was lunchtime and the boys and most of the staff were engaged in the dining room. Unfortunately, this ruled out his plan to smuggle John back into the school through the kitchens and they were forced to use the main doors. Dr Huxtable flew out of rooms, closely followed by Tony Aveling, the moment they arrived at the main entrance, and was alternately fussing over John and the state he was in, and berating Sherlock for having left that morning without a word to anyone.</p><p>Sherlock, seeing that John was about to collapse, despatched Aveling to find the school nurse while Dr Huxtable was told quite firmly that they could not answer any questions until John had been examined and pronounced fit. John made his way to his rooms in the Western wing, leaning quite heavily on Sherlock, though this was mainly due to tiredness, and the pain in his knees, whether consciously or not, his limp was no longer bothering him. </p><p>The nurse, a brisk efficient woman, examined John and found him remarkably unscathed from his ordeal. The wound on the back of his head was cleaned and shown to be healing nicely, his hands and knees were sore, and the skin broken in places, but John was more than capable of attending to these once he had taken a shower. The nurse checked his tetanus inoculation was up to date and prescribed a light meal, plenty of fluids and a day or so in bed to recuperate from his ordeal. John was prepared to agree to the first two suggestions.</p><p>Sherlock heated up one of the tins of soup from John’s store cupboard and made tea for them both. Sherlock found these small domestic activities, which he had so studiously avoided during his tenure as John’s flatmate, remarkably therapeutic. It was something practical he could do for John, and kept his hands occupied, without which he might have been tempted to continually touch John to reassure himself that his friend was truly there with him. It was only now John was found that Sherlock was able to admit to himself just how afraid he had been.</p><p>Sherlock agreed to John taking a shower providing he didn’t lock the bathroom door, John, desperate to have a wash and shave agreed to Sherlock’s demands although not before muttering about a ‘mother hen’.</p><p>While John was in the shower, Sherlock made two short phone calls and one longer one, and made a fresh pot of tea, he was taking the nurse’s instruction to keep John well hydrated seriously. When John emerged from the shower and went to get dressed, Sherlock took himself to the guest room and changed out of his country clothes and into a suit before returning to find John, clean shaven and looking remarkably well, waiting for him.</p><p>Sherlock announced that he was ready to go to Holderness Hall and a taxi was on its way. John insisted on accompanying him, just as Sherlock had known he would.</p><p>******</p><p>As the taxi drove along the famous yew avenue of Holderness Hall. Sherlock noted a new Range Rover parked haphazardly in the driveway. Sherlock and John were ushered through the magnificent Elizabethan doorway and into his Grace's study. There they found the Duke sat behind his desk while he was berated by a petit, peroxide blonde woman, incongruously dressed in jeans, a cashmere jumper and four inch heels, while diamonds that belonged in a bank vault sparkled from her ears and fingers. Neither looked as if they had slept.  </p><p>On their announcement by the butler, the Duke sprang to his feet.</p><p>“You have news of Arthur?”</p><p>“No not yet, though I am certain of his whereabouts.”</p><p>“Then what is stopping you from fetching him?”</p><p>“I wish to speak firstly to your assistant, James Wilder.”</p><p>A brief shadow passed over the duke’s face, but Sherlock had to give him credit, his Grace gave very little away.</p><p>“He is not here. He was unwell this morning, so I sent him home about an hour ago.”</p><p>“Your Grace, may I ask you a question that might appear in poor taste under the present circumstances?” Sherlock sounded positively obsequious.</p><p>It worked; the Duke inclined his head.</p><p>“If you and your wife had not produced a son, who would have been next in line to inherit the title, and Holderness Hall?”</p><p>The Duke answered immediately. “Goes to a third cousin, Charles Beverley, great, great grandson of the fifth duke… or to his eldest son.”</p><p>Sherlock pulled himself up a little taller, before striking the death blow.</p><p>“Not to your nephew?”</p><p>The Duchess gave a little gasp and the Duke spluttered.</p><p>“I see you have uncovered the skeleton in the family cupboard. Well, it has not been much of a secret for many years, anyone who lived or worked on the estate or in the local area will know that James Wilder is my late brother’s son by Joanna Wilder. There is no scandal or mystery about it, although my mother and father never knew the truth.</p><p>“There is nothing to gain by concealing anything from you. Complete frankness, however painful it may be to me, is the best policy in this desperate situation to which James's folly and jealousy have reduced us. You’d better sit down; it is a long story.”</p><p>Sherlock and John did as they were told.</p><p>“It begins with my brother Alexander, he was ten years younger than me, and born after considerable heartache on behalf of my parents, as a result he was indulged in every way, by them and by me. He was completely fearless and totally irresponsible, but he was funny and charming, and everyone loved him.” The Duke swallowed audibly and then went on.</p><p>“He was always pushing the limits of his endurance, there were always new mountains to climb, new seas to sail, new caverns to explore. I never really understood it, where he got his sense of adventure from; the bravest thing I ever do is ride a horse and my father was the same. Alex met Jo here, when he was staying with Mother at the Lodge, I was working in the city by then and our paths did not cross that often.</p><p>“Jo was lovely, don’t get the impression that as a family we were in anyway Victorian about the affair, it was of no concern to us that she was a girl from the village, she was a good match for Alex, as brave and headstrong as he was. Then Alex got Jo in trouble as we used to say, he came to me for advice, he said he wanted to do the right thing by her but neither of them felt cut out to be parents, Jo was only just eighteen at the time. Well I thought he was talking about…” The Duke hesitated, but Sherlock nodded.</p><p>“I understand, go on.”</p><p>“But that was not what they had in mind at all; it seemed that Jo’s older sister was keen to foster the child, but her husband needed persuading… a financial incentive. It was difficult, my family had very little money, my uncle was still in possession of the title and Holderness Hall and the little capital that went with it. However, it was 1989 and the markets were beginning to recover from the crash two years earlier, I had made a few investments at the time and I was able to raise a sum which satisfied Reuben Hayes.</p><p>“I did wonder at the time if Alex and Jo would make a go of it, and if they would eventually settle down, but instead they drifted apart. Jo got involved with some New Age Traveller types and went off with them, Alex spent a year in Australia, working a bar, surfing, sailing, exploring. Then the next thing we heard was that Jo had been killed in an accident. My father had inherited Holderness by then, but I only saw Alex a couple of times before he died the following year.</p><p>“My father never got over Alex’s death and within six months he had the stroke that killed him. I have always regretted not telling him about Alex’s son. Once I was living on the estate I decided to do what I could for the boy, Hayes had made a poor show of running the Fighting Cock, and couldn’t make it pay, so I let them move into the Lodge, that was when the rumours concerning James were confirmed.</p><p>“I married not long after I came into the title and the girls followed very quickly but then for a long time it looked as if there wouldn’t be an heir for Holderness from my loins. Julie Hayes was working at the Hall and I encouraged her to bring the boy with her, so I could get to know him better, instruct him in the ways of running the estate. Maybe I failed to make it clear, but I never intended anything other than James taking over as agent when Rogers retired. Then finally, and rather to our surprise, Arthur came along, James would have been around sixteen by then, and I could tell immediately that he was extremely put out.</p><p>“You see over the previous few years James had begun to ask questions, about who would inherit the estate when I died. It is not exactly easy to explain male-line primogeniture, but I did my best, told him about Charles Beverley, and his sons, Alistair and Patrick. James didn’t take this well at all; all teenagers think that life is unfair and to James, the thought that the estate should pass to these complete strangers when he was living on my doorstep, the only son of my only brother, was an outrage. In his view he should himself have been heir of all my estates, and he deeply resented those social laws which made it impossible.</p><p>“As time went on, I began to realise that James had hated young Arthur from the first with a persistent hatred. You may well ask me why, under these circumstances, I still kept James working for me. I answer that it was because I could see my brother’s face in his, and that for his sake I COULD not send him away. But it drove a wedge between me and my wife, and deep down I was afraid that this hostile environment was not good for Arthur’s wellbeing, so I dispatched him for safety to Dr Huxtable's school.</p><p>“There was something else. When I had told James that he would always be provided for and have a place on the estate he had interpreted this to mean much more than a job and a home. The estate is not entailed, there is no such thing anymore, but my grandfather set up the Holderness Trust, so that the estate and the land would always follow the title.  I have very little money of my own, my wife,” here the Duke indicated the Duchess with another incline of his head, “very wisely no doubt, kept control of her fortune and, I am sure she would agree when I say, she was happy to invest heavily in maintaining and improving the estate so that it is in much better shape than it was when I inherited, however it still struggles to pay its way. Arthur will be in a better position,” Again the Duke wordlessly consulted his wife, “as he is likely to receive a substantial trust from his mother at twenty-one, and again on coming into the title. But it was a shock I believe to James, when he began to work on the estate to realise just how little actual cash is at my disposal.</p><p>“I have told you this, so you are fully cognisant with what has occurred and how bitterly I regret my part in it. You will have learned, I am sure, that I wrote to Arthur the day before he disappeared. Well, James opened the letter and inserted a note asking Arthur to meet him at the school gates. He used the Duchess's name, and in that way got the boy to come.</p><p>“I have discovered that this was part of a plot by James and his Uncle Reuben Hayes to extort money from my wife, the Duchess. They spirited away the boy and made a demand for a considerable yet not impossible sum of money from me, or rather from Arthur’s mother to guarantee the safe return of our son. They already had a bank account set up in the Cayman Islands for the very purpose. My wife, as you see was distraught and came rushing back to England to deal with the kidnappers, not knowing whom they might be. But I had a strong suspicion that James was behind the abduction. He wanted money, and with my wife and I in the early stages of divorce proceedings James knew there was even less chance that he would benefit from any endowment from me. But from his perspective Natasha had more than enough to spare, the demand was a mere drop in the ocean to her. He told me so when I confronted him with my suspicions.</p><p>“James informed me that Arthur was quite safe. He knew well that I should never willingly inform on him to the police, Arthur would be restored, and James would be set up for life.”</p><p>The Duke turned to his wife, “Please accept that I am sincerely sorry for my part in the distress I have caused you. My hand was forced, and I made the wrong decision, but I do not believe that James will harm Arthur, he gains nothing from Arthur’s death.”</p><p>“That is where you are wrong,” Sherlock stood up and addressed the Duke, “Alexander and Joanna were married at the time of James’s birth, I have had this information from a most reliable source, and what is more I believe that James is aware of the marriage too. He may not have known it for long, but I am certain he knows it now and because of this he is a very real danger to your son Arthur.”</p><p>Both the Duke and Duchess started talking at once, the Duke finally showing some emotion concerning his missing son. “I was not entirely honest with you when you asked for James earlier, he was not unwell this morning. He took a call before he left, I saw the number come up on the phone before he answered it, I believe it was from Dr Huxtable, probably to inform me that Dr Watson had been found.”</p><p>“He would have known the game was…” Sherlock’s mobile began to ring, he answered it. “Yes… yes, good… I see… I will inform them, yes.”</p><p>Sherlock ended the call and said, “That was my contact at Scotland Yard; Reuben and Julie Hayes have been arrested, the local force are bringing Arthur back to you now, unharmed, physically at least.”</p><p>The Duchess sank back in her chair, “Thank God!” she whispered in her native tongue. The Duke also sat down; his face drained of all colour.</p><p>“And James?”</p><p>“It appears he made a run for it, but he won’t get far.” Sherlock turned to look out of the window, at the blackening sky and driving rain. “Let’s hope he comes to his senses and turns himself in, I don’t fancy his chances out on the moors in this. Ah! This looks like the police now!”</p><p>The Duke and Duchess both moved with surprising speed out of the study and into the hallway just as their butler was answering the door. John listened to the voices in the hall before turning to Sherlock and saying.</p><p>“You cock! You did call the police!”</p><p>Sherlock smiled, “Of course I called the police, or rather I called Graham and got him to contact the local force, thought they would take more notice of him than me.”</p><p>******</p><p>They sat in companionable silence for some time, the activity had apparently moved to another part of the house, and John wondered if the Duke had forgotten about them. After the way he had spent the last sixty hours or so, John thought, there was a lot to be said for sitting on a comfortable sofa, in a room with a burning log fire, while doing nothing much at all. He wondered if he rang a bell someone would bring them tea.</p><p>“John… I…” Sherlock began but John put up his hand to stop him.</p><p>“Not here, not now. When this is over.”</p><p>Sherlock nodded and they went back to sitting in silence. Around another twenty minutes passed before the Duke reappeared.</p><p>“Gentlemen, my apologies for keeping you here, there were some matters that required my attention.”</p><p>“Arthur?” John asked.</p><p>“He is with his mother, and the Family Liaison Officer. He is as well as can be expected, there will be some trauma to deal with no doubt, but he is young, and we will do everything in our power to help him to recover.”</p><p>The Duke sat down heavily. “I know now, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, that Arthur will never be safe from James. It appears he and Reuben Hayes had planned a bungled escape attempt that would result in Arthur’s death. I do not have the details, but it would have been a tragic accident. I might never have forgiven James but that was of no consequence to him. He would have played a slow game, waited until after my death to reveal the facts of his parents’ marriage and claimed the title.”</p><p>“He would have been heir to all this,” said Sherlock, picking up the Duke’s thread. “Except he wouldn’t have been, there would have been none of this without your wife’s money. She’s hardly going to leave it to the Dukes of Holderness in perpetuity if her son was not one of them. That is why James wanted the money, to run the estate after your death.”</p><p>The Duke shook his head, there was a glimmer of tears in his eyes.</p><p>“I owe you an apology too, Dr Watson,  James assured me that you were safe, I was wrong to take his word for it but I loved that boy very much; he was all I had left of my brother. But I love my Arthur more. I will do whatever it takes to keep him from harm.”</p><p>Sherlock looked again out of the study windows, the stormy sky and the inhospitable moor in the distance. “Perhaps you won’t have to.”</p><p>The three men sat in silence, in the distance a clock struck, and a bell rang but otherwise all was quiet. Then finally the Duke spoke again.</p><p>“Life is but a game and we are the playthings of the gods; shall I tell you what makes me say that? I hope, Gentlemen, that I can rely your discretion… Natasha and I were not a love match, our marriage was purely one of convenience, I sold her my title and my estate in exchange for money and an heir. But I knew from quite young that I was not a marrying kind of man. No, not what you think, I saw enough of that at school to know my own sex held no interest for me either. No, I was not cut out for any of it.” He gave a bitter half-laugh, “Indeed, had I known that Alex had left a legitimate heir, I doubt if I would ever have married at all.”</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. To Close This Gulf Between Us</h2></a>
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    <p>The Duke offered to find Sherlock and John a ride back to the school. John accepted gratefully; now that the chase was over, he was feeling a bone weariness that was beyond anything he had experienced in his life since Afghanistan. It seemed that, for the moment, the police were unaware that John had become entangled with the events of Lord Saltire’s abduction and he was keen to keep it that way. He had no wish to be tied up in police procedure or drawn into any notoriety the presence of Sherlock Holmes might provoke.</p><p>As the Duke finished making the arrangements, there was a knock on the study door and a uniformed police officer appeared requesting the presence of his Grace. The Duke made his farewells to Sherlock and John and went with her.</p><p>Left to their own devises they wandered out into the majestic hallway to wait for their lift. They had expected to find it empty instead they found the Duchess, striding up and down the length of it, her stiletto heels beating a tattoo on the ancient flagstones as she unleashing a torrent of angry Russian to whoever was on the other end of her mobile phone.</p><p>Sherlock, whose Russian was fluent, bent and whispered in John’s ear. “Let’s wait in the porch, it would not be wise to be seen to overhear that call, even if it is in a foreign language.”</p><p>John nodded, and together they slipped unnoticed out of the front door. It was cold, and still raining hard but fortunately their wait was a brief one, as Steve appear from around the corner of the building driving a smart Range Rover, the twin of the one that was already parked outside.</p><p>Sherlock opened the rear door and gave John a gentle push before climbing in beside him. It left Steve rather in the position of a chauffeur, but Sherlock had reached the conclusion that John was about to crash, and he wanted to be near to him in the event.  </p><p>As they drove over the moors towards the Priory School, the police surveillance helicopter came into view overhead lighting up the night sky.</p><p>“They’ll be looking for James then, heaven hope they find him, ‘t’is not a night to be out on the moors.”</p><p>John shuddered violently. As Sherlock suspected, the reaction was setting in. He moved as close to him as the seat belt would allow so that their shoulders were touching.</p><p>“If it is any consolation to the Duke,” Sherlock said, mainly to Steve, “I am certain his nephew was spurred on by Reuben Hayes.”</p><p>“It must have been Reuben who hit me,” John added, “I remember now, James Wilder was in front of me when it happened.”</p><p>“Reuben was always a nasty piece of work,” Steve agreed, “that’s why the pub went down the drain, he was at odds with everyone in the village.”</p><p>John shuddered again. Sherlock squeezed his arm and went on.</p><p>“It was probably his idea to dump you in the Ragged Shaw, with both you and Arthur missing it would have been an open and shut case. The Duchess would have paid the ransom demand and you alone would have been blamed when the boy’s body was found. Your own disappearance would only have substantiated your involvement in the crime. No doubt the local plods would have placed you in Costa Rica, or South Africa or somewhere similar.</p><p>“Except the Duke guessed at James Wilder’s involvement and confronted him with it. Then Dr Huxtable phoned the Duke, no doubt with the intention of exonerating the school. James answered, panicked and ran off to the Lodge, only the police beat him to it.”</p><p>“Which is why he headed off onto the moor.” Steve said.</p><p>They were silent again then, as they contemplated just how treacherous the moors could be on a winter night, even to those who knew them well.</p><p>“But how did they get me into the cave, at night, in the dark?” John asked eventually.</p><p>“Both James and Rueben are familiar with the caves, most of us are who live on the estate,” Steve replied. “There’s torches and ropes in the truck, as you know from this morning Mr Holmes.”  </p><p>“I think they hoped they had killed you, or your injury would prove fatal.” Sherlock continued. “They had to think on their feet. The place where they discovered you had followed them was right by the access track to the Ragged Shaw. They dumped you in the back of the truck and drove up as close as possible to the mouth of the cave, then I think they carried you in as far as they could, using the rug you had round your shoulders when you emerged as a kind of stretcher. They made the mistake of underestimating your resilience… and the thickness of your skull.”</p><p>John ignored Sherlock’s final comment. “But it must have taken them hours. Where was Arthur all that time?”</p><p>“He’s eight years old, it was cold, it was the middle of the night. I imagine they gave him a drink, hot chocolate or something similar laced with a sleeping tablet. It wouldn’t have taken much to keep him under until they got back to the Lodge, even if they did have to detour up the Lower Gill Moor.”</p><p>They had reached the gates; Steve pressed the intercom as he had just a few hours earlier. They had come a long way since then. As he dropped them off at the main entrance to the school, Sherlock stopped and shook his hand.</p><p>“Thank you, your assistance has been invaluable. I cannot…” Sherlock’s final words were interrupted by Dr Huxtable rushing out to meet them.</p><p>Steve turned the car, waved and headed back down the drive, leaving John and Sherlock to the gushing Headmaster.</p><p>“Oh, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, I have had the Derbyshire constabulary on the telephone, they wish to interview you immediately. I had to tell them I was unaware of your location.”</p><p>Sherlock cursed inwardly, “I am afraid Dr Watson is far too exhausted to be interviewed by anyone, and as for me, I am intending to return to London this evening.”</p><p>John caught Sherlock by the arm, he winced. “It appears I must intrude on the school’s hospitality for another night, Dr Huxtable, if you are willing to contact the police please advise them that we will be available tomorrow morning. Dr Watson needs to rest and recuperate.”</p><p>Sherlock could tell that Dr Huxtable was dying to interrogate them himself, but his good manners prevailed, particularly when John staggered forward, just a little.</p><p>“Indeed, indeed, you must rest. I will see that a hot meal is sent over to Dr Watson’s room.”</p><p>“For both of us” John added, then smiled, “case is over now, Sherlock.”</p><p>******</p><p>The school kitchen had obviously raided the boys’ supper things to provide a meal at such short notice, there were fish fingers, chips and peas followed by jam roly-poly and custard, it was all extremely comforting.</p><p>After they had eaten, Sherlock made them tea and brought it through to John’s sitting room.</p><p>“I haven’t seen you for over two years, and you were really going to head straight back to London?”</p><p>“I thought I had outstayed my welcome. You didn’t seem that glad to see me.”</p><p>“Of course, I was glad to see you.”</p><p>“Really? You seemed more pleased to see your bicycle.”</p><p>“I thought you were in London, when I emerged from the cave and saw you, I thought for one terrifying moment that I was dreaming. But believe me, there is no one I would have been happier to see.”</p><p>John sipped his tea, and then said. “Will you tell me about it?”</p><p>Sherlock didn’t ask what John meant, he just nodded and began. He told John about the snipers, about the plans. Of Mycroft’s scheme, and Moriarty’s suicide. He skipped Serbia, and embellished Tibet. He left out the fear, the pain and the loneliness but John heard it all anyway.</p><p>“I had become so bound up with Moriarty that I had forgotten.” Sherlock said.</p><p>“Forgotten, forgotten what?”</p><p>“That you never run away from danger you always run towards it… You didn’t hesitate for one second to put your own life on the line to ensure the safety of Arthur.”</p><p>“I would not have hesitated for a moment to put my life on the line for you.”</p><p>“I know, that’s why I went away. To protect you, well Mrs Hudson and Lestrade too, but mainly you. But as I have learnt in these past two days... I cannot protect you unless we are together.”</p><p>“I’m sorry.” John said after a while, “I need to go to sleep, I don’t expect you do though. Would you rather stay here tonight? The couch is quite a comfortable one.”</p><p>Sherlock expressed his relief, “I will fetch my things from the guest room.”</p><p>Sherlock had intended to be gone no longer than in took to grab his bag and John’s laptop, but he had been waylaid by Tony Aveling and it had taken all Sherlock’s limited self-control not to be rude to the man. It appeared that the whole story was now the talk of the school.</p><p>“An interesting study,” the geography teacher said, “in nature versus nurture, one cannot help wondering if James Wilder had been brought up by one uncle rather than the other, if his life would have turned out differently.”</p><p>Sherlock refrained from adding James’ legitimacy as fuel to the fire, he would leave that to come out into the open of its own accord. Finally, he was able to make his excuses and escape.</p><p>When he got back, John’s bedroom was in darkness and his breathing indicated that he was asleep.</p><p>Sherlock changed into his own pyjamas, settled a cushion behind his head and lay down on John’s sofa with the blanket over his knees.  He fired up John’s laptop to check his emails, he still had the matter of the Ferrers Documents to work on, and he was monitoring the progress of the Abergavenny murder trial. He sent a couple of texts to Lestrade and an email to the barrister who was handling the Abergavenny defence. But worn out not only by the case, but also by reliving his exile, after an hour or so he turned out the light and slept.</p><p>******</p><p>A noise, an animal somewhere, in pain, that was what woke Sherlock from his own troubled sleep. There is was again, coming from the direction of John’s bedroom. Sherlock recognised it then for what it was. He had heard it before, at Baker Street.</p><p>Sherlock stole from the couch to tap on John’s bedroom door. There was more noise and then the light flicked on.</p><p>“Come in.”</p><p>Sherlock opened the door, John was sitting bolt upright in bed, wide-eyed but otherwise quite calm.</p><p>“Tea?”</p><p>“Since when did you get to be the person who makes tea?” John asked, no trace of sleep in his voice. “You made me three cups of tea yesterday, that’s three more than in the whole two years we lived together.”</p><p>“I made you coffee.” Sherlock protested.</p><p>“Once, and for an experiment doesn’t count.”</p><p>“You never have forgiven me for that, have you?”</p><p>“There are lots of things you need forgiveness for Sherlock… forget tea, there’s some whisky in the cupboard in my study, let’s have some of that.”</p><p>When Sherlock returned with the whisky bottle and two glasses, John patted the corner of the bed.</p><p>“You’ll freeze, the heating’s off.”</p><p>Sherlock wrapped the throw tighter around his shoulders and stuck his cold feet under the blankets where John indicated.</p><p>“Was it Afghanistan?”</p><p>John knew what Sherlock was referring to. “No, it was you, most of my nightmares concern you, even when I am awake. You were lost on the moor, in a cave, some place dark… every time I reached you, you slipped through my fingers. I couldn’t stop you falling. Old story, new version. They will pass.”</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>“I know you are.”</p><p>They sipped their whiskies, both unbeknown to the other transported back to their days in Baker Street.</p><p>“Do you think he meant it?” John asked after a moment.</p><p>“Who? What?” Sherlock replied.</p><p>“The Duke, what he said to us just before we left, that he wouldn’t have married if he’d known he had an heir?”</p><p>Sherlock, put his glass down and was silent for quite a while, hands in prayer mode, forehead creased. Just as John thought he would never answer, Sherlock spoke.</p><p>“I suspect that the Duke is what might be called asexual, he feels no physical or emotional need for sexual relations. This does not mean that he is incapable of the act given the correct stimulation, but he does not engage with it on any level other than physical and if given a choice would happily live without it.”</p><p>It was John’s turn to be silent and thoughtful.</p><p>“Well I suppose you would know.”</p><p>“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sherlock snapped.</p><p>John was slightly embarrassed; as if, having started the conversation, he had not anticipated the direction it would take.</p><p>“Well Irene Adler offered it to you on a plate, I expect there have been plenty of women… and men who have done the same. But you’ve never…”</p><p>John’s voice trailed off, he could see even in the dim light of his bedside lamp, his friend was blushing.</p><p>“I am not…that.” Sherlock said at last.</p><p>“No?”</p><p>There was more silence until John, finding it quite unsettling, said “It’s ok, whatever goes on, you don’t have to justify it to me.”</p><p>“Will you turn off the light?”</p><p>John did so without question. In the darkness he could still make out the shadow of his friend. Ethereal and insubstantial. Just as John was about to say to Sherlock again that it was all fine, his friend started speaking.</p><p>“I’m not very good at all this, it takes me a long time to join up to dots, to read the signals. By the time I am ready the person in question has invariably moved on.</p><p>“There was someone once, I thought perhaps he was interested, that maybe he was making an approach, but I wasn’t ready, and then he denied it. Denied it a great deal in fact.”</p><p>“What happened?” John whispered in the dark.</p><p>“He saw a lot of other people, women. We parted company, didn’t see each other again, it wasn’t until that happened that I finally got my ducks in a line and worked out what it was that he meant to me. Too late, as it turned out.”</p><p>“What happened?”</p><p>“He’d moved on, moved away, didn’t want to know.”</p><p>“Sherlock,” John said slowly, as if not to frighten him, “This person. Did you never see him again? Or was it just that you didn’t see him for two years?</p><p>“Sherlock?”</p><p>John slid out of bed and came to sit next to his friend. “I should have tried again! I always thought I should have tried harder, that first evening, but instead I should have waited and tried again.”</p><p>Sherlock looked up at where the outline of John was.</p><p>“I should have told you.”</p><p>“Told me what?”</p><p>“All of it, but mainly, I should have told you to try again.”</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>James Wilder’s body was recovered from the rain swollen brook that had turned the Lower Gill Moor into a quagmire. The inquest on his death returned an open verdict. He was interred in the Holderness family plot, under the name of James Wilder Beverley.</p><p>******</p><p>The <em>Daily Mail</em> reported that the Duke and Duchess of Holderness had settled their differences and the rumoured divorce would now not take place.</p><p>This was followed some twelve months later with the announcement in <em>The Times</em> of the birth of a son, Pieter Alexander.</p><p>******</p><p>Dr Watson served out his notice at The Priory School and left at the February half term. He returned to live with Sherlock Holmes at 221b Baker Street. They would not be needing the other bedroom.</p>
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